


Alone Together

by ChibiAuthorJessie (manatapped)



Series: Chronicles of War [1]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Abuse/Subjugation, Adventuring, Canon Tie-in, Cross-Factional Romance, Developed Backstories, Everyone is emotionally constipated, F/M, Family Issues, I'm Terrible To My Characters So Fasten Your Seatbelts Kids, It All Works Out In The End I Promise, It's Not Called World of Sunshine And Rainbows, Rule Number One: The Author Lies, Slightly Canon-Divergent, Slow Burn, Until it Doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-01-25 08:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 51
Words: 197,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manatapped/pseuds/ChibiAuthorJessie
Summary: Violet and Tyri’el come from opposite sides of Azeroth’s eternal struggle - a human of the Alliance and a blood elf of the Horde - and neither expect to find solace in someone they’ve been taught to see as the enemy. A chance encounter leaves their lives irrevocably entwined, and these two lost souls begin to understand that they’re not as alone as they once felt.And that makes for one hell of a love story.--Takes place during Burning Crusade.





	1. Obligatory Boring Information and Disclaimers

_Legal Stuff: Canon characters, names, places, etc, are property of Blizzard Entertainment. I only own my OCs and the bullshit I put them through, no matter how much I wish I could write them into canon **(seriously, Blizz, hmu)**._

\- - - - -

 

**Chronicles of War**

**Book One: _Alone Together_**

————

 

**A Few Things To Know About My Universe:**

  
1\. I try very hard to keep everything as accurate as possible lore-wise, but there are times when I take creative liberties for the sake of the story. So, I wouldn’t take all the lore presented as 100% fact. I also have a lot of little headcanons put in, but most of those don’t change canon - really, they just add flavor.

2\. The timeline is…wibbly-wobbly. In the real world, about two years pass between the launch of expansions, but in-game/lore-wise, only a year passes between each release. That felt a little too rushed for my tastes, so I’m decreeing that in my universe, each expansion lasts about two years. Using official Blizz sources (The ‘Chronicle’ books and other canon literature), as well as the WoW Gamepedia (wow.gamepedia.com), I’ve mathed my way to the conclusion that at the start of the series, during Burning Crusade, about 7 years have passed since the events of WC III/Frozen Throne. There’s also a bit of a gray area spanning a few years prior to that to accommodate some plot points, but everything happens in nearly the same order as it does in canon (exceptions being if I can’t find references to the order of specific events, in which case I organize them how it makes the most sense to me). As such, some characters will be older than they are in-game, following the expanded timeline.

3\. Azeroth is a whole lot bigger than it is in-game. Sorry, it doesn’t take ten minutes to run from Silvermoon City to Booty Bay.

4\. This is World of Warcraft. Bad things happen, and people get hurt. I will do my best to put trigger warnings at the start of each chapter as they come up but be aware that this series is drama-based and characters will often have a bad time. It’s not always doom and gloom, but like the tag says, it’s not called ‘World of Sunshine and Rainbows’, and for good reason. If you need your fics to always be happy and fluffy…well, you’ve been warned.

——

**Specific Notes for This Particular Book:**

This starts about halfway through Burning Crusade. That's about it.

——

Soundtrack:

https://open.spotify.com/user/dqymjowdxoqkr1i05wxw3iydu/playlist/6TSq88kjAJQzOGci0SbIGI?si=sgwsuJ8YSHyKchvItlioRw

——

**A Few Final Thoughts:**

  
I have given myself the deadline of a minimum of one chapter per week, but sometimes I kick serious word ass and get more than that done (I think my record is four chapters in the span of a week?).

These fics are very loosely beta’d. As in, I re-read them once before posting, and then my brother reads them and tells me about typos. So, there’s bound to be a few mistakes here and there, but I usually catch them within a day or two.

I live for feedback! Please, if you have any thoughts at all - be they good, bad, or emotionally ambiguous - please, please, _please_ don’t hesitate to drop me a comment! I take constructive criticism to heart, and I am always eager to hear what people think and how I might improve my writing. Of course, if you just want to tell me what an amazing job I’m doing, I’m totally fine with that, too!

——

****You have earned the achievement: [Survive the Boring Info Section!]****

Thanks for bearing with me, and I hope you have as much fun (and feels!) reading this fic as I had writing it!

 

And, as always,

**FOR AZEROTH!**

 


	2. Forest Dark And Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that the main character has a name that sounds like a Diablo character, but this wasn't pointed out to me until way after I got attached to the name. Sorry if it causes any weirdness.
> 
> Dialogue spoken in a different language will be in italics.

 

The streets of Tarren Mill are busy this time of evening, filled with people ending a day of hard work. It’s just before supper, and the Forsaken that inhabit the town are all returning home to a hot meal and a comfortable chair. Farmers wash their hands of dirt, the stable master throws fresh hay to the few still-living horses within the stable, and the blacksmith hangs up his tools until the morning. The sun has not yet set, but hangs sleepily in the sky, casting a warm glow over the village as it sits in the damp air of early spring.

The front door swings open on one of the cottages that sits along the edge of the large field closest to the town square, and young, fair-haired blood elf steps out, using a hand to shield his glowing eyes from the sinking sun. A Forsaken woman follows him out, sorting through coins that she holds in her bony hand. She picks up a few, holding them out to the elf, who takes a moment to realize that she’s waiting for him to take them.

“Appreciate your help, Magister,” she says, her voice rasping in a way that would make someone uncomfortable if they weren’t used to its sound. “Kind of you to be takin’ time out of your royal duties to help an old lady like me.”

The elf chuckles, not at all phased by the roughness of her voice, or by the various pieces of flesh very obviously missing from her body. He takes the coins from her, immediately pushing all but a few silver pieces back into her hand. She begins to protest, but he shakes his head.

“I’m not in the business of accepting overpayment for such simple spells. This should be enough for supper at the inn before I leave.” He slips the coins into a pouch attached to his belt.

“Simple, my rear end. Ain’t too often someone comes around here that can put a bit of fight into my scarecrows. Damn birds won’t know what hit ‘em.” She laughs, stepping aside to allow a free-moving broom to sweep a plume of dust out of the cottage and onto the street. “This broom ain’t too bad, neither.”

The elf coughs, nodding as best he can through the settling dust.

“I’m happy to help, but do send for me if your scarecrows start trying to carry on a conversation with you.”

“You’re tellin’ me they’ll start talkin’?”

“They shouldn’t, but stranger things have happened.” He grins, and the woman shakes her head.

“Get out of here, you great silly child.” She waves him away with a smile of her own. “It’s a damn marvel the Dark Lady hasn’t strung you up by them long ears of yours.”

“And a good evening to you, too.” The elf bows, turning away from the cottage with a farewell wave. It’s a short walk to the inn, and he finds a seat at one of the tables before digging in his pack to retrieve a book. The cover is worn, but the deep purple of the leather and the intricate gilding is still visible under the dust that falls to the table as the elf opens the tome and turns the pages like a child during Winter Veil.

“Evenin’, Tyri’el,” a Forsaken woman says, setting down a glass of sweet wine in front of the elf. “What brings you out to the backwoods this time, love?”

“Thank you, Moriah,” he says, taking a moment to look up at her over his book. “Do I need an excuse to get above ground and out where I can actually see the stars at night?”

“I suppose not,” she says, putting a hand on her hip. “But I’d wager all of tonight’s tips that it has somethin’ to do with that dusty old book you’ve got there.”

“Your salary is safe, then,” Tyri’el says, smirking as he takes a sip of wine.

“Where’d you get it, bookworm? You been buyin' pilfered books from adventurers gone into Scholomance again?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you,” he says, turning the page.

“Fine, fine,” Moriah says, sighing. “Just be careful if you’re runnin’ about in the wilds. Heard tell of them trolls roamin’ farther west.”

“Mmhmm,” Tyri’el hums, turning the page again, eyes glued to the parchment.

“Hear they’ve been cuttin’ apart little elf boys and makin’ ‘em into fancy hats.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Don’t know why I try talkin’ to you when you’re stuck in a book like that,” she says, rolling her eyes and turning around. “I’ll have your dinner out in a bit.”

Tyri’el nods absentmindedly, his eyes flicking back and forth across the pages as he devours the contents of the book. The ink is faded and the way it’s written makes him think it’s incredibly old, as do the occasional references to people and places thrown into the text that dates it to be at least a century old. Still, it’s something he hasn’t read before, making it interesting regardless of its content.

“There you go, love,” Moriah says, setting down a steaming bowl that smells just delicious enough to drag Tyri’el’s attention away from his reading. “No bread just yet, I’m afraid. Still in the oven.”

“This will be perfect regardless. You’re an artist in the kitchen.”

“Save your flattery. But I wouldn’t mind you rubbin’ it in my sister’s smug little face when you get back to Undercity.”

“If she didn’t make my dinner each night, I probably would,” Tyri’el says, picking up his spoon. “If it’s all the same, though, your crab cakes beat out Audrey’s, any day.”

“You’re just sayin’ that so I don’t go poisonin’ your food.”

“Perhaps,” he says, taking a bite of stew and going back to his book. Moriah rolls her eyes and leaves him to his dinner.

“Not stayin’ the night, then, love?” Moriah asks as Tyri’el approaches the bar a short time later and lays down a gold piece in front of her.

“Not this time. I’ve got to be back as soon as possible to work on a few tasks for the Apothecaries.”

“Be careful, yeah? I meant what I said about the trolls. They’re getting bolder by coming out this far.”

“I think I could hold my own if they decide I’d make a lovely hat,” Tyri’el says, and Moriah laughs.

“You’re somethin’ else,” she chides, taking the gold piece and stowing it down the front of her bodice. “Dark Lady watch over you.”

“And you,” he says, giving a shallow bow before leaving the inn. He walks to the mailbox, slipping in a letter he’d scrawled just before finishing his dinner, and adjusts his pack on his shoulder. When he turns back towards town, something catches his eye near the back door of the inn. A cloaked figure slips out, closing the door slowly but not pushing it shut, and moves silently towards the trees behind the building. Their face is covered by a scarf so he can’t make out any distinguishing features, but they’re smaller in stature, making Tyri’el think it could be a woman, possibly a human judging by lack of noticeable ears. In their gloved hands is a small loaf of bread, and Tyri’el frowns when he realizes he’s looking at whoever stole part of his dinner. In the second it takes him to look around for one of the town guards, the figure is gone, having seemingly disappeared into thin air.

Shaking his head and questioning his current level of exhaustion, Tyri’el makes for the stables to retrieve his skeletal horse. He pays the stable master and leads the horse outside, mounting and guiding it to the road leading out of town. The sun is just touching the horizon, lighting up the countryside with rays of amber and gold. He rides quickly, knowing that he has to make good time in getting back to the Undercity.

It’s fully dark when he finally reaches a fork in the road, and he takes the branch of road that will take him west towards Silverpine Forest, riding for a few minutes before he comes to a small stream. He halts his horse, dismounting to wade out a foot or so into the water to fill his waterskin. He bends over, letting the gentle current do the work for him, straightening up immediately when he hears his horse let out a frightened whinny. Turning back to the beast, he narrowly avoids a flying object that passes him and splashes into the stream.

 _“You miss. He knows we here,”_ a deep voice says in what Tyri’el realizes all too quickly is a dialect used by the Witherbark tribe of trolls native to the neighboring Arathi Highlands. Looking around, he can’t see whoever spoke, but he knows that there must be at least two of them, and likely many more.

_“We just kill him?”_

_“He look puny. It be easy.”_

_“Why he look at us dat way?”_

_“I have nothing of value,”_ Tyri’el says in their guttural language, and there’s a short mumbled exchange from the trees around him.

_“What you doin’ with our words, elf?”_

_“I know many languages.”_ He holds up his hands in an attempt to show peace. _“I carry nothing of value to you.”_

 _“Dat big stick you got looks mighty good,”_ one of them says, the same one who had inquired about his knowledge of their language. The trees rustle, startling Tyri’el’s horse, and a shape emerges from the shadows. Though he’s seen trolls many times before, he’s never seen one quite this big. His blue skin is streaked with dark paint, and he stands a good two feet taller than Tyri’el, an axe gripped in each hand. Cursing internally, Tyri’el realizes he’s talking about his staff, currently secured across his back.

 _“This?”_ He asks, reaching up slowly to remove it from its sheath.

 _“Dat be da one,”_ the troll says, and the trees part to reveal a dozen more warriors, all with their weapons drawn and their primitive leather clothing already caked with dried blood.

_“Give it to us, little elf.”_

With a grimace, Tyri’el throws the gilded staff at the leader’s feet.

 _“Dat’s good. Don’t need you able to be doin’ magics.”_ The leader picks up the staff, and Tyri’el clenches his jaw.

 _“I don’t need that to use my magic,”_ he says, his hands starting to glow in the dim light of the moon overhead. Something hits him hard upside the head, and he staggers, the arcane energy flickering out as he sinks to his knees. The world around him spins.

 _“Good shot,”_ the leader says to one of the other trolls. _“Can’t trust da elves, boys.”_

He steps closer to Tyri’el, turning the staff over in his massive hands.

 _“Wonder if dis might get a better price if it came with dis one’s head.”_ The leader grins, towering over Tyri’el as he hands the staff to one of the other trolls. Tyri’el raises his head, blinking against the blood that trickles into his eyes from the cut on his forehead, and stares into the eyes of the troll above him. _“Better take it, just to be safe.”_

The troll bends down and grabs him by the hair, pulling him upright and tilting his head to give a better angle of his neck. Through the haze and swimming scenery in his vision, Tyri’el reaches up to smash his palm against the troll’s face, shouting an incantation that sparks his eyes with arcane energy. A blast of light erupts from his hand, and the troll screams out in surprise, falling to his knees with his hands covering his face. Taking advantage of the few moments that the other trolls are startled, Tyri’el stands quickly, staggering towards his horse.The beast is too spooked by his spell and in the ensuing confusion, flees from him, bounding into the trees, leaving him to fall to the ground as the trolls begin to act.

_“Stupid elf!”_

One of them charges at him, and Tyri’el closes his eyes, fighting to stay conscious. The footfalls stop suddenly, and he opens his eyes to look to his attacker, finding the troll motionless where he stands, his eyes wide. The blood seeping from his gut catches Tyri’el’s eye, as does the blade roughly withdrawing from where it’d pierced straight through the troll’s torso. He falls over quickly, and in the dim moonlight of the forest, his killer is almost unnoticeable in their dark clothing and long, black cloak.

Chaos ensues, the trolls shouting in surprise at the sudden, almost miraculous appearance of this newcomer. Whoever it is, they make frighteningly quick work of the rest of the war band, striking quickly and lethally with a shortsword in each hand. Tyri’el struggles to keep his eyes open, the ringing in his ears growing louder as his vision blurs. He focuses his energy on keeping track of the cloaked figure, unsure if they intend to attack him, as well.

When the last of the band has fallen, the figure turns, throwing one of their swords at the leader, who has managed to get to his feet and is slinking towards the tree line. The blade strikes him in the leg, cutting clean through his thigh and sending him to the blood-soaked earth as he howls in pain. The figure approaches him, yanking out the blade as they cast a wayward glance at Tyri’el, who can do nothing but watch in silent horror.

The cloaked figure moves to stand in front of the troll, speaking as they do. The voice is definitely feminine, and Tyri’el thinks his head injury might be more serious than he’d originally thought as her words make little sense to him, coming out in broken Thalassian. He then realizes that she’s speaking Darnassian, the language of the night elves, knowing the two languages share a very similar base but that each has a distinct vocabulary.

“I don’t know what you saying,” the troll says in Common, his voice raspy and heavy with agony.

“I said,” the woman begins again, sheathing one of her swords so she can grab him by his bright red hair and force him to look at her, “are you sorry you left me alive?”

Tyri’el shudders at her voice, at her words so thick with rage.

“What? Don’t know you,” the troll says, and the woman lets out a short laugh, using the hand not gripping his hair to pull down the scarf covering her face. She’s definitely human, her dirty cheeks etched with falling tears. Her teeth are bared like an animal and her pale eyes hold a frightening fire, and Tyri’el thinks absently that he’s glad he’s not on the receiving end of that glare.

“Do you know me now?”

“You was dead…”

“Your people hold honor as their highest value, do they not?”

“What you—“

The troll does not get to finish his sentence, crying out as the woman kicks him hard across the side of the head. He stays upright, but sways as he gasps reflexively at the impact.

“Where is the honor in slaying an enemy as they sleep?” She kicks his shoulder to send him back against the dirt, planting her foot on his chest as he struggles for breath. “What glory does killing defenseless prey bring?”

“Please don’t—“

“Save your breath,” she hisses, gesturing to the bodies surrounding them. “Look around. Your band is dead, and the whole of your tribe will know your weakness when I mount your head on a spike and deliver it to your chieftain come morning.”

Tyri’el watches as she sheathes her other sword, reaching into her hip pack to pull out a small dagger housed in an ornamental sheath. In the short time she’s distracted by this gesture, the troll reaches slowly for the bottom hem of his shirt and pulls a small blade from a sheath there, hiding it in his massive hand.

“On your knees,” the woman commands, removing her foot from his chest. The troll complies slowly, rising to rest on his knees as he grunts from his wounds. “Do you know what this is?”

She unsheathes the dagger, revealing its intricate decoration and razor-sharp edges. The troll shakes his head, moving his hand to rest in front of him.

“This is a kaldorei zin’serrar. It’s used by druids to sever souls from their bodies. Some don’t believe in the power of these blades.” She runs her finger over the edge of the dagger, her eyes flicking up to look at the troll. “I’ve always been eager to put one to the test.”

The woman grabs the troll by his hair again, thrusting back his head to expose his throat. She takes a step closer, and the troll shifts his weight to mask his fingers moving to expose the small bone-carved blade.

“Look out!” Tyri’el yells, hoping his Common comes out right as he reels from the force exerted by his voice.

“This doesn’t concern you, elf,” the woman snaps, taking just a moment to turn her head to speak. In that split second, the troll’s hand collides with her gut, the blade cutting deep into her stomach. She cries out in surprise, the sound quickly turning to rage as she raises the dagger despite her wound. _“This blood spills for you, sister!”_

The shouted Darnassian echoes off the trees as the woman strikes at the troll, the dagger slicing open his neck almost all the way through. He falls back with the force of her boot, and she’s left standing over him, breathing hard as she watches him with wide, almost feral eyes. When she turns to look at him, Tyri’el shivers under her gaze, watching her pull the small blade from her gut and toss it at the motionless troll. With her own dagger still clutched in her hand, she opens her mouth as if to say something, but her eyes roll back in her head and she staggers sideways, collapsing to the ground.

Tyri’el crawls over to her, rolling her onto her back so he can lift up her shirt to examine the extent of her wound. It’s deep and bleeding heavily, the blood seeping out between his fingers as he applies pressure as best he can with his failing strength. He fumbles with his belt pack, pulling out a roll of cloth that he unfurls and attempts to wrap around her abdomen. Her unconscious weight is too much for him to handle in his current state, and the bandages end up too shoddily-wrapped for the healing properties to take effect.

Cursing, Tyri’el looks around the clearing, the action causing his head to throb, and lays eyes on his staff where it’d fallen alongside the troll who’d been carrying it when the fight began. He crawls to it and grabs it quickly, returning to the fallen woman to confirm that she’s still breathing. His horse is gone, and they’re too far away from any settlements for him to have a chance of carrying her there, leaving him with only the option to teleport to somewhere he can get help.

Only a moment is spent concerned with the fact that he would be bringing a human deep into Horde territory, knowing that she’ll die out here if he leaves her. She did save his life - whether or not she intended to - and he knows that at least warrants some kind of charity on his part.

Her dagger had fallen from her grasp when she collapsed, and Tyri’el picks it up, figuring that it’s of some import to her. With one arm, he picks her up as best he can, using the other arm to guide his staff in a circle that begins to glow blue once completed. His eyes take on the same light, and an arc of blue magic swirls around them as he begins to speak, picturing in his mind’s eye a round room made of dark stone.

The last word of the incantation leaves his lips and they disappear, leaving only a few lingering flickers of arcane magic in the silent wake of the battle.


	3. The Undercity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beleron is my brother's character.

The air within the quiet room ripples for a split second before Tyri’el and the woman appear from nowhere, the elf letting his staff clatter to the stone when he feels himself on solid ground once more. A Forsaken woman shrieks in surprise from the far end of the room, turning from an apothecary table when the sudden noise pulls her from her work.

“Find Father Lazarus,” Tyri’el says, heaving in a deep breath as he looks up at her from where he’s crouched over the woman in his arms. The Forsaken stands in shock, her eyes glued to the human. Tyri’el coughs as he sets the woman on the floor, looking up in desperation. “Now!”

The Forsaken woman nods, scrambling from the room, and Tyri’el works to unfasten the human’s cloak from her neck so he can feel for a pulse. It unclasps easily, and he pushes it off, revealing a golden chain holding a matching pendant hung around her neck. The pendant looks plain enough, but there’s a small trace of magic embedded within it, the likes of which Tyri’el has never seen. After a split second of fascination that ends as the room begins to spin, he moves aside the chain, feeling her neck to find a very faint pulse. With that reassurance, he leans back against the end of the bed behind him, pinching the bridge of his nose and willing himself to stay conscious. Two fingers stay on the woman’s wrist, and he focuses on counting each beat to keep himself awake.

“Light above!” A Forsaken man comes hurrying into the room, kneeling down in the pool of blood beside the woman, his glowing eyes inspecting her abdomen and the wound there. He looks over at Tyri’el, whose vision and hearing are fading in and out rapidly, gesturing from the Forsaken woman who’d fetched him to the elf. “See to him, Bridget. Make certain he stays awake.”

Bridget nods, kneeling and taking Tyri’el’s head in her hands to look in his eyes and at the cut on his forehead that, in the commotion, has started to bleed again. Her hands start to glow with whitish light, and Tyri’el closes his eyes, the warm, tingling sensation of the Light’s healing easing some of the pounding in his head. The feeling subsides, and he opens his eyes again, feeling much more alert and clear. He watches Father Lazarus work on the human, his glowing hands passing over her stomach as the bleeding slows and the wound starts to mend itself.

“Looks like you’ve got a concussion, Magister,” Bridget says, running her thumb across his forehead to heal the cut until it’s nothing more than a shrinking pink line on his fair skin.

“I suspected as much,” Tyri’el says, the last of the fog lifting from his mind. Father Lazarus continues to work, and Tyri’el only takes his eyes off of them to wipe the blood from his face with the damp rag Bridget hands him. The woman’s cheeks seem to have more color to them, and the rising and falling of her chest becomes more and more evident as the priest heals her. Candlelight catches on her locket, and Tyri’el’s eyes are drawn to it, again sensing a strange magical presence from the simple pendant.

“Help me, would you?” Father Lazarus says, the glow fading from his hands. “We need to get her into a bed.”

“Of course,” Tyri’el replies, standing up quickly and leaning on the bedpost when a wave of dizziness overcomes him. It passes quickly, and he moves to help the priest pick up the woman and carry her to the nearest bed. He steps back as soon as she’s placed, sitting on the bed next to hers to observe the Forsaken as they attend to the woman. “Will she be all right?”

“With rest and much more healing, I believe she will,” Father Lazarus says, looking up at Tyri’el. “You, on the other hand, had better get your story straight before the Archmage gets wind of this.”

Sighing, Tyri’el drags his hands down his face and rests his elbows on his knees.

“I don’t envy you that conversation,” Bridget says, pulling off the woman’s boots to place them under the bed. The elf nods, and his eyes flick over to where they’d landed with the teleportation spell, seeing the woman’s dagger still lying on the blood-stained stone. He stands, picking it up and turning it over in his hands, admiring the intricate details. It definitely does look to be kaldorei in origin, and he wonders briefly why she would have such a weapon before remembering how fluently she’d spoken Darnassian to the troll. Wiping the blood from the blade on his already soaked pants, Tyri’el sheathes the dagger and places it alongside her boots under the bed before again taking a seat on the nearest bed.

“Thank you for helping her,” he says, and Father Lazarus nods absently as he inspects the woman’s arms for injury. “I thought you would be the most…understanding healer to bring her to.”

“I don’t ask questions when someone’s life is on the line, my boy. Even if it is a member of the Alliance. I took an oath to heal without prejudice, and I intend to uphold it.” The Forsaken leaves the bedside and walks to one of the many cabinets filled with bottles and pouches of herbs, picking out a vial of something and returning to his patient. “But, now that she’s stable, I am curious to know how exactly this situation came about.”

“As am I,” a new voice says, and Tyri’el pales, a surge of dread flooding his system. He looks to the door, finding it filled with another blood elf many years his senior, with the same pale hair that he bears. The elf stands tall, and the shadows cast by the torches on the wall seem to grow around him, throwing the light to make him look much sterner. “Leave us.”

Father Lazarus and Bridget nod hurriedly, the latter casting a wayward look of pity at Tyri’el, and they leave the room through a side entrance. The air in the room is perfectly still, and the two elves stare each other down before the elder of them turns his attention to the unconscious woman in the bed before him. He strides over, the end of his magnificently-crafted staff clicking against the floor as he goes. His glowing green eyes watch the sleeping human, and his gaze doesn’t falter as he speaks.

“I’m waiting for you to explain yourself, Tyri’el,” he says, a hard edge underlying his otherwise melodious voice. Tyri’el takes a deep, steadying breath, willing himself to remain composed.

“She saved my life, uncle.”

“From what?” The elf looks over at his nephew, and Tyri’el swallows reflexively. “And it seems you still managed to get yourself wounded.”

“Trolls. It was a war band that had reportedly been terrorizing the lands east of Tarren Mill for days.”

“What were you doing in Hillsbrad? I don’t recall any inscription business coming out of the country for months.”

“I was there to…” Tyri’el trails off, thinking for a moment and cursing under his breath when he realizes that, in all the commotion, he’d left his pack alongside the creek. The older elf raises an eyebrow.

“There to what, Tyri’el?”

“To purchase a few items from an elf who frequents the area.”

“Purchasing stolen books from thieves. Is that what you meant to say?”

“Adventurers enter Scholomance frequently, uncle. And it’s not as if the residents will have any use for them anymore…” Tyri’el trails off, feeling his uncle’s eyes on him but refusing to look up.

“This is all beside the point. Tell me why you brought a human into the heart of the Undercity.”

“The trolls caught me off guard, and they would have killed me had she not appeared from nowhere and slain them all.”

“That does not answer my question, Tyri’el.” The elf frowns, looking back to the human. “The Dark Lady will not be pleased to learn you’ve done this. I want to have a proper explanation when I argue against her stringing you up by your ears.”

“What was I supposed to do? She saved my life and you’re telling me that I should have just left her out there to die?” Tyri’el stands, matching his uncle’s stern gaze as he steps between him and the human.

“I don’t have time to argue moral reasoning with you. You got yourself into this mess, and you’re going to make sure that it doesn’t become anyone else’s problem.” The older elf points to the human, glaring at his nephew. “She is your responsibility now, and anything at all that goes wrong because of her is directly your fault. Keep her in your sights at all times. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Tyri’el says, and his uncle nods, watching the human for a moment before looking Tyri’el up and down.

“I’m glad she saved you, however. I would not want to have to explain to your mother that I let you wander off to get murdered by trolls, of all creatures.” With that, he turns and leaves the room.

A few moments later, Bridget returns with a bundle of clothing in her arms.

“Good, you’re still standing,” she says, walking over to the bed. “And not at all singed.”

“I think it came close,” Tyri’el says, sighing and looking at the door. “He’s ordered her as my charge, though. I’m not to let her out of my sight.”

“Well, you’ll have to disobey him for just a bit, I’m afraid.” Bridget gestures to the woman. “Need to get her out of those soiled clothes and into some dry ones.”

Tyri’el nods, leaving the room to sit on the stoop with his back facing the interior of the infirmary. He watches the bustling of the Mage Quarter, seeing young adventurers of all races of the Horde running around. They’re always in such a hurry, he notes, watching a fellow blood elf speed by on her hawkstrider. He envies them somewhat, wishing that he could travel the world without worrying about which royal decrees need to be penned, and who needs what translated by the end of the week. Sighing, he rests his chin on his hand.

“There we go,” Bridget says, coming up behind him. “Now all we have to do is wait.”

“Do you think she’ll be awake soon?”

“Hard to tell. Father Lazarus was able to stop the bleeding, but it will take a lot more work until the whole thing is all healed up.”

“In other words, you can’t tell me how long I’ll be stuck as her babysitter.”

“Afraid not,” the Forsaken says, shaking her head with a smile. “Beleron is an excellent mage, and he’s done a whole lot for this city and the people in it, but sometimes I wonder if he’s actually a real person with real emotions.”

“As opposed to what?”

“Oh, I dunno. Two goblins inside a robot?”

Tyri’el laughs at the thought, standing from the stoop and needing to grab the doorframe to keep himself on his feet.

“Easy, there. That concussion will affect you for a few more days, even with my healing. Since you have to be here anyway, I’d say you’d do well with some bed rest.”

“That sounds wonderful, actually,” Tyri’el says, looking back into the infirmary.

“Get yourself some sleep while you still have the chance. I’ll need to wake you up every so often to make sure that knock to your skull hasn’t gotten any worse.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, walking over to the bed next to the one still holding the unconscious woman. Her old clothes are gone, replaced with the ones Bridget had brought, and her golden hair lies in loose ringlets around her head rather than held in a braid like it had been when they’d arrived. “Notify me immediately if she wakes up.”

“I will. Just sleep.”

Tyri’el nods and pulls off his boots, looking down at his stained clothes and wondering when he’ll get a chance to change them. He lies down, finding that even the simple mattress of the infirmary bed is welcoming enough to pull him into sleep almost instantly.


	4. Dark Lady Watch Over You

It’s some time later when Tyri’el opens his eyes again, a dull throbbing settling into the front of his skull as he sits up. The infirmary is dark, with only a handful of candles shedding light around the room. One such candle is lit on the table between the bed he’s in and the one that holds the human woman, who is still unconscious.

“No change?” Tyri’el asks Bridget as she enters the room from the side door. She shakes her head.

“Nothing more than better color and a stronger pulse. Father Lazarus gave her a bit of sedative to make sure she doesn’t go jumping up and running away, but it should be wearing off by now.”

“What time is it?”

“Just after eight in the morning.”

“I didn’t think I’d sleep that long.” He rubs his forehead. “Has my uncle returned?”

“No. Suppose that’s a good thing, though?”

“Sometimes his silence is to be feared more than his words,” Tyri’el admits, running a hand through his hair. “Is there anything I can help you with to pass the time?”

Bridget proceeds to instruct him on how to organize shelves and re-label various bottles. A good half hour passes with these tasks, the methodical silence only broken by the audible creaking of a bed behind them. Tyri’el turns, seeing the woman open her eyes, shifting on the mattress as she takes in her surroundings. Almost on reflex, she sits bolt upright and leans over as if she intends to get out of bed, barely holding in a cry as she falls back against the mattress with her brow knit in pain. One hand holds her stomach, the other reaching up to grasp onto her necklace, and a momentary calm overcomes her when her fingers touch the pendant. The expression is quickly replaced by wide-eyed terror.

“Bridget,” Tyri’el says, getting the attention of the Forsaken who hadn’t heard the woman’s initial awakening. The priest’s eyes widen, and she starts towards the human, but Tyri’el stops her, gesturing to his own face. Bridget nods, letting him approach the human instead of risking more distress from her obviously undead appearance. The elf walks slowly, deliberately towards the bed, attempting to look as non-threatening as possible. Sensing movement, the woman looks over at his approach, glancing around her immediate area for anything she might use as a weapon.

“Don’t come any closer,” she says, her voice hoarse and far less commanding that it had been in the forest. Her accent strikes him as odd - it’s Gilnean at its roots, but there’s another region mixed into it, perhaps somewhere farther south.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Tyri’el says, stopping at the end of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Where have you brought me?” She asks, pale eyes scanning the room. When she notices Bridget, who has stayed at the far end of the room, she pales, the pieces falling into place.

“The Undercity,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I asked you a question.”

“I’m feeling like I should have let them kill you,” she says, and though her voice shakes as she speaks, Tyri’el almost believes her. She sits up slowly, still holding onto her necklace like a small child might cling to a favorite toy. “Why did you bring me here, elf?”

“You saved my life, and I thought it best if I returned the favor. You would have bled out had I not brought you here to be healed.”

“And what now? What will you do with me?” The woman coughs, her face twisting in pain as she holds her stomach, and Tyri’el notes how young she is for a human - probably no more than twenty years old.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he says, sitting on the far end of the bed he’d been sleeping in earlier. “You shouldn’t aggravate your wound any further. There’s no need to worry about your safety at this moment.”

She laughs shortly, turning her face away from him.

“Why should I trust you?”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you? And not in irons or thrown in a cage like an animal.”

The woman grimaces at his words, but her face is hidden from him by the curtain made by her hair over her shoulder. She closes her eyes, muttering under her breath.

 _“You speak excellent Darnassian,”_ Tyri’el says, speaking in the tongue of the night elves when he recognizes her words as an a prayer used by some kaldorei to invoke the courage of the gods. She looks at him, startled by his statement and the language in which it was presented.

 _“As do you,”_ she says, watching him a bit more carefully now.

_“Where did you learn it?”_

_“From someone very close to me.”_   The woman thinks for a moment as she studies him.

 _“Tell me your name,”_ Tyri’el says, reading each tiny reaction that shows in her face.

 _“Tell me yours,”_ she counters, eyes locked on his. Tyri’el holds her stare for a moment, jaw set, before exhaling slowly.

“My name is Tyri’el Sunfury. I’m a mage in service to the Dark Lady.” His transition back to speaking in Common is flawless, and he waits for the young woman to respond. She still studies him, genuine fear hiding behind her stern gaze.

“Violet,” she says finally, shoulders sagging with fatigue. “And I serve no one.”

“Why were you so near to Silverpine Forest? The Foothills are contested territory, but the western border is heavily populated with those in service to the Horde.”

“I was tracking the trolls,” Violet says, eyes rimmed with moisture. “That stream was the first time I’d actually caught up to them.”

“Why were you tracking them?”

“They killed someone very close to me.” Her fist, which had only been loosely wrapped around her necklace, tightens around the pendant.

“Your sister?” Tyri’el watches her closely, taking note of every movement she makes, from her shaking hands to her strained throat.

“What business is it of yours?” Violet snaps, holding back a grunt as her raised voice causes a flash of pain where her wound sits.

“I suppose it’s not,” Tyri’el says, frowning. “But you’ll have to divulge it eventually. If not to me, then to the Dark Lady.”

“Does the Banshee Queen care so much to meet every prisoner brought to the Undercity?”

“Only the ones brought in without her express permission.” Sitting back, Tyri’el folds his arms over his chest. “If for no other reason than to discuss the punishment of the one who did the bringing.”

This earns a dry chuckle from Violet, and she instantly regrets the action, holding her stomach and gritting her teeth. Her face hardens, and she glances up at him.

“If you knew you’d be reprimanded, why did you bring me back with you? You could have just as easily left me for dead and come back alone.”

“I felt an obligation to return your kindness. If nothing else, we’re even now.”

Violet scoffs, settling back against the mattress when she can no longer keep herself upright.

“Stopping the trolls from slaughtering you was an unintended side-effect. I did not save you of my own desire.”

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t encourage her so,” Father Lazarus says, approaching them. “Such a discussion will only serve to aggravate her wound.”

“Forgive me, Father,” Tyri’el says, standing. “I had hoped she would be more appreciative of my charity.”

“Charity? I’m as good as dead once the Banshee Queen gets her claws on me.”

“I’ll leave you  to your work, Father,” Tyri’el says, walking away from the beds without acknowledging her again. Violet glances at Father Lazarus, brows knitting together in clear concern, then back to Tyri’el.

“Be at ease, child,” Father Lazarus tells her. “You are safe whilst in my care, you have my word.”

“Inform my uncle that she’s awake,” Tyri’el says to Bridget where she stands by the door, and she nods before slipping out of the room. He resigns himself to leaning his back against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Father Lazarus interact with the human. She seems only slightly more at ease with the Forsaken priest, and though her responses to his questions about how she’s feeling are short and gruff, Tyri’el can see that she’s appreciative of the man’s kind demeanor. For a Forsaken, he appears much less unsettling in looks than some of the city’s other residents, something that no doubt lends well to keeping the human better settled in her current situation.

The hurried clacking of his uncle’s staff rouses Tyri’el from his thoughts, and he hurries to the door to meet the Archmage when he arrives.

“She’s awake?” Beleron asks, and Tyri’el nods.

“Very outspoken, as well. She’s unhappy to be here.”

“Take this as a lesson, Tyri’el,” Beleron says, pushing past his nephew and approaching the beds. “I apologize for the interruption, Father Lazarus, but I need to speak with this woman alone.”

Father Lazarus nods, standing from where he was seated on the bed to cross the room and exit through the side door. Beleron steps up to the bedside, clearing his throat to get the attention of the young woman. Her eyes shoot open, and she looks up at him, a flicker of fear crossing her face. She looks over at Tyri’el, who joins his uncle, and then settles again on watching the older elf.

“Tell me your name,” he says, and she swallows hard at his tone.

“Violet,” she says, quickly amending her response. “Sir.”

“Do you know where you are, Violet?”

“The Undercity.”

Tyri’el can’t help but puzzle over her sudden change in demeanor. She’s no longer the hostile prisoner she had been only moments before, instead looking now more like a child who has been caught sneaking into the sweets jar. It’s a fascinating change, for sure, and he watches with curiosity as they continue to converse.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“He brought me here,” she says, gesturing with a nod to Tyri’el. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

Beleron glares at her, then turns to address Tyri’el.

“Get her on her feet. The Dark Lady is eager to meet this…” He trails off, looking over at Violet once again. “To meet our guest.”

With that, the Archmage is gone, leaving Violet to work at calming her pounding pulse.

“Who is he?”

“Beleron Sunfury, Ambassador to the Dark Lady.” Tyri’el glances at the door. “He’s my uncle.”

“Light save me,” she whispers, closing her eyes for a moment before slowly sitting up. Tyri’el offers her a hand, and she considers it for a moment before taking it and allowing him to help her to her feet. She grunts, holding her stomach with her free hand, and pants from the effort it takes her to stand. Tyri’el begins to ask her if she’s all right, but she cuts him off. “I’m fine.”

“This way, then,” he says, guiding her towards the door. He stops, looking back to the bed. “Your boots.”

“Nevermind them. I want this over and done as quickly as possible.” Violet grunts again. “Whatever it is she’s going to do to me.”

Tyri’el nods, helping her down the few steps outside the infirmary to begin the walk to the throne room. If looks could kill, they’d both be dead a hundred times over. Besides the whisperings that sprout up as they travel through the city, the absolute murderous rage in the eyes of so many of the citizens is almost tangible in the stale air. Violet walks as normally as she can, her head held high despite the obvious hostility all around her.  
When they reach the archway that leads down into the throne room, Violet stops, leaning hard against the wall where no passersby will be able to see her. Her fair features are twisted in pain, her brow soaked with sweat, and she clings to the wall as if it’s the only thing keeping her from melting away under the strain on her wounded body. Unsure of what to do for her, Tyri’el can only stand beside her, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. After a few moments, she opens her eyes, angrily wiping away the tears staining her cheeks.

“I’m ready,” she says quietly, pushing off from the wall to continue down the hallway. Tyri’el takes her arm to help steady her, but she pulls it away, grunting as a look of stalwart determination overcomes her. “I do not need your help in this, elf.”

“Very well,” Tyri’el says, walking beside her with his eyes trained on her in case she stumbles and falls. They travel down the corridor in silence, the only noise being Violet’s labored breathing, but she still does not slow or show signs of weakening further. Whether she’s truly feeling better or just pushing through her pain, Tyri’el can’t tell.

The final archway passes and they enter the throne room. A dais of dark stone sits in the center of the circular room, and on that rise sits a magnificent throne. To the right of the throne stands a man clad in dark leather, hood pulled up over his pale face and deep red eyes that follow her every motion with cold indifference. At his feet rest two dog-like creatures, their putrid green hides giving off a stench that makes Violet choke. The beasts perk up at their approach, but stay dutifully by their master’s side.

Violet’s eyes move timidly from the man to the throne itself, finding it filled with a pale-skinned elven woman, her crimson eyes burning like coals from their place beneath her hood. She sits straight on the seat, one leg crossed over the other and long, dark nails drumming impatiently on the stone arms of the throne. Something about her makes the human’s skin crawl, and she quickly looks away.

It’s then that Violet notices the looming figure standing to the left of the Banshee Queen. Eyes lit with fel green fire watch her intently, belonging to a massive creature with curling horns and wide-reaching wings. It’s a being from stories, an agent of darkness that seems to be looking right through her, right down to her quaking soul. She suddenly feels very small, and in her mind, something tells her to be ready to defend herself against this thing.

In her fear and awe, Violet stumbles and grips at her side, feeling fresh blood seeping through the thin linen of her shirt. The dreadlord sniffs at the air like a hound tracking wounded prey, a cruel grin spreading across its demonic face. It begins to speak in what must be the language of demons, its deep voice producing sounds that only further send chills of dread up Violet’s spine. The Dark Lady seems to understand whatever it is the thing is saying, and her eyes narrow to slits beneath her hood. Her hands grip tighter at the arms of the throne, and she tenses as if ready to attack. She barks something at the man to her right in what must be Thalassian, and he pulls his bow from where it was slung over his back and nocks an arrow in one smooth motion, eyes never leaving her face. He keeps his bow trained low, but the wordless action is very clear in its meaning. The hounds at his side spring to their feet, poised to strike at their master’s command.

“I’ve brought the human, my lady,” Tyri’el says, tensing at the ranger’s movements. He looks to his uncle who stands at the foot of the dais, but the elder elf is silently watching them with hard, albeit somewhat confused, eyes.

“Come forward,” the Dark Lady says, her voice sending a chill down Violet’s spine. There’s a controlled rage in her words, and Violet complies immediately to the order. She puts a bare foot onto the first step built into the dais, her strength faltering for just long enough to make her stumble again. Reaching out reflexively, Tyri’el moves to steady her, but again she rejects his help, though her eyes betray her fear. Tyri’el steps back, looking up at the dreadlord, who is still grinning that horrible, demonic smile, sharp teeth showing from behind dark lips.

“Approach,” Sylvanas commands, and Violet moves up the stairs quickly despite the crippling pain in her side. It’s still too slow for the elf, who growls out another order. “Quickly, girl.”

Violet obeys, and though she is trembling from both fear and fatigue, she stands tall as she walks the final steps up to the throne. The flickering of the torches on the walls illuminate her face, reflecting off her pale eyes, the seaglass orbs all the more striking in the strange angles of the light. The ranger steps forward, standing protectively closer to the queen, bow raising a few inches with string pulled taught.

“Who are you?” Sylvanas asks with a predatory edge to her already harsh voice. Violet is startled by her tone, her words lost to the fear rising in her throat. The queen grips the arms of the throne and leans forward. “Answer me!”

“My name is Violet, my lady. I—“

“Your family name, girl. Speak!”

“Devereaux, my lady.”

“Where do you hail from?” The queen’s tone walks the line between suspicion and rage, as if she does not believe her to be telling the truth and that the very notion of a lie infuriates her.

“Stormwind, my lady. Please, I—“

The Dark Lady stands from the throne quickly, closing the gap between her and the trembling young woman in a split second. She leans in close, the livid face beneath her hood now visible in the dim torchlight. The ranger raises his bow fully now, the gleaming tip of his arrow aimed directly at Violet’s heart.

“How did you do it? How did you persuade the boy to smuggle you into my city?”

“I don’t under—“

“Do not play coy, girl.” The queen is shouting now, and Violet takes an instinctive step backwards. “What were your orders? Your mission?”

“I was not brought here of my own will, my—“

“Do not _lie_ to me!” The queen screams, striking Violet across the face with the back of her gloved hand. Stumbling backwards, Violet falls to her knees, cradling her cheek with one hand, the other clutching at her necklace. The dreadlord chuckles, the low sound rumbling from deep in its chest as its grin continues.

“Sylvanas,” Beleron says, quickly ascending the stairs to stand beside Violet. His eyes are wide, true horror showing in his features. “This is too much. She is only a girl.”

“She lies,” Sylvanas says, glancing up at Beleron. Violet mumbles something, her hair blocking the view of her face. She’s shaking now, far beyond her previous trembling, as if she’s using every ounce of her strength to contain something trying to release itself. Looking down at her, Sylvanas frowns, crimson eyes filled with indignant fire. “You dare speak?”

“I’m not…” Violet looks up at Sylvanas, dropping her hand from her reddened cheek as she lets the tears spill over. “I am not lying.”

Her words are screamed so fiercely that even the Dark Lady is momentarily stunned, watching silently as the human pushes herself to her feet with teeth bared like an animal. The hounds slink forward from where they were standing, growling at her with their own teeth bared. Violet’s gaze flicks to them for only a moment, and their ears flatten against their heads as they halt their advance.

“Not another step,” the ranger says, his voice ringed with a metallic echo. His hands are steady on his bow, ready to let his arrow fly if she disobeys. She looks to him, something held in her pale eyes that makes him falter for only a second before he speaks again. “Stand down.”

Violet looks between the others, looking very much like a cornered animal calculating its options of fight or flight. The dreadguards stationed just inside the throne room archway draw their swords, pushing past Tyri’el and approaching the dais.

“I will ask you only once more,” Sylvanas says, looming over Violet with jaw set tight and dark lips pursed into a thin line. “What did you hope to accomplish by coming here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Violet says, voice wavering. To her credit, she doesn’t break the stare between herself and the Dark Lady, glaring deep into the crimson eyes now only inches from her face.

“You’re either very brave, girl, or very stupid,” Sylvanas says, lashing out with one hand to grab Violet’s throat. “I am inclined to believe the latter.”

“Sylvanas,” Beleron cautions, eyes still wide.

“Silence,” Sylvanas says, tightening her grip on Violet’s neck enough that the girl struggles to draw in breath. “She will suffer greatly for her insolence.”

“Highness, please,” Tyri’el says, reaching the top of the stairs in a matter of seconds to stand between his uncle and Violet. “She speaks the truth. I brought her into the city without her knowledge or consent.”

The queen looks over at him.

“If anyone deserves to be punished for this, it’s me. Have mercy on her, I beg of you.”

Sylvanas’s grip loosens enough to allow Violet to drag in a strained breath.

“You will be punished, boy,” she says, “but I cannot allow her to leave the city.”

“Perhaps she can be of use to you, my lady,” Beleron says, stepping forward. “She must possess some skill that would serve you well.”

Sylvanas and Beleron exchange a look that Tyri’el doesn’t understand, and the queen’s expression softens as her grip releases fully. Violet drops to the ground, a fit of coughing taking away what little breath she has.

“Very well,” Sylvanas says, keeping her eyes on the Archmage for a moment longer before looking down at Violet. “You belong to me now, girl. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Violet gasps, the room spinning around her. All fight in her is gone, replaced now by fatigue and shaking limbs. Sylvanas seems satisfied, and her attention turns to Tyri’el.

“Inform Father Lazarus that she’ll be confined to the infirmary until I can find a use for her.” She looks him over, seeing the blood staining the front of his otherwise immaculate clothing with no change in her stoic features as she does. “And clean yourself up.”

Tyri’el hesitates, and Sylvanas waves her hand.

“Out,” she commands. “I want to speak with the girl alone.”

“Yes, my lady,” Tyri’el says, pausing for a moment longer to spare a glance at his uncle, but Beleron pays him no mind, attention fully on the queen. He leaves the throne room, unable to shake the feeling of the dreadlord’s eyes on his back.

At the Dark Lady’s feet, Violet watches him go, afraid to raise her head to look at the three people surrounding her, or at the dreadlord who stands silently a handful of feet away. She closes her eyes, swallowing hard, and utters a silent plea to the Light.


	5. Hiding

The silence left by Tyri’el’s departure hangs thick in the air, and as Violet cowers at the Dark Lady’s feet, she fully expects to die in the next few moments. She’s shaking, trying not to remember the hushed whispers she’s heard over the years speaking of the Banshee Queen’s savagery. Of her utterly inhumane actions and the dark powers she commands. 

 Breaking the silence, Sylvanas says something to the ranger, and he lowers his bow, still keeping the arrow nocked and ready. She begins to converse with him and Beleron in what Violet assumes to be Thalassian, voice spiking with rage as she paces back and forth across the dais. Chancing a look up, Violet raises her head to be met with the hard glare of the queen, foreign words spit in her direction. The ranger - Sylvanas refers to him repeatedly as Nathanos - is mostly silent, keeping his attention on Violet, not even blinking in his vigilance.

 Beleron is more animated, speaking in tones probably meant to placate the Dark Lady, but she only grows more furious as they exchange words. Violet listens intently, trying to piece together the parts of their words that are similar to Darnassian, but she quickly gives up trying to understand. One hand holds her side, where blood continues to seep through her shirt from the barely-healed wound, and the other holds onto the locket around her neck.

 Sylvanas stops her pacing, her voice echoing off the walls of the throne room, and Beleron replies with more urgency as she approaches Violet. Before Violet can react, Sylvanas reaches out and grabs her chin, forcing her to look up at the Archmage. She’s shouting now, her cold grip crushing Violet’s cheeks against her teeth hard enough that the human can taste blood. Beleron seems to be advocating for the human’s well-being, but Sylvanas gestures to her again, to her face - no, to her eyes - and something dark flashes across Beleron’s face.

 The air around him warps, waves of heat rolling off him, and he steps forward with balls of white-hot flame sprouting from his palms. Violet flinches, tugging out of Sylvanas’s iron grip to shield her face with her arms as the heat stings at her skin. Beleron stops short as Sylvanas puts her hand to his chest, holding him back. She’s whispering something to him, and the flames he wields subside, though the air around him is still blistering. Violet cowers before him, swallowing a mouthful of blood before slowly raising her head to look beyond her arms where they’re still held protectively in front of her. Beleron’s expression holds nothing less than murderous rage, and he’s shouting now, every venomous word directed undoubtedly at her.

 Sylvanas lowers her voice, speaking calmly now, her hand still lingering on his chest in a way that strikes Violet as strangely intimate. Her words seem to calm Beleron, and she turns to look down at Violet, a cruel grin on her face. The dreadlord says something behind them, and Sylvanas nods, a hint of laughter in her response. For some reason, the Dark Lady’s apparent mirth is deeply unsettling to Violet, even more so than her previous fury. She doesn’t say anything, instead huddling down to make herself appear as small and as non-threatening as possible.

 Beleron speaks again, his voice devoid of emotion, and Violet catches Tyri’el’s name in the midst of his statement. He shakes his head, looking at Sylvans for a moment before he holds his hands up in defeat. In the next second, he’s gone, a teleport spell taking him out of the throne room. Sylvanas turns to Violet, looking her over again.

 “What brings a citizen of Stormwind so far north?”

 Violet looks up from where she’s been tracing the patterns in the dark stone with her eyes. The room around her spins, and she blinks hard, fighting off the fatigue and dizziness creeping over her.

 "My lady?”

 “Answer the question.” It’s Nathanos that speaks now, and his blighthounds advance a few paces towards her as if on silent command.

 “I have not lived in Stormwind for some time, but I’ve only recently come north of the Thandol Span.”

 “She’s lying,” the dreadlord says, voice rumbling deep in Violet’s chest in a way that makes her shiver hard enough that her stomach turns.

 “She speaks like a Gilnean, my queen,” Nathanos says, and Violet clenches her jaw and casts him a hard glare. Sylvanas nods.

 “Lying to me won’t do you any good, girl,” Sylvanas says, walking up to Violet to tower over her. “I have ways of learning the truth that I promise you are much less pleasant than just telling me what I want to know. I’ve dealt with Alliance spies before.”

 “I’m not a spy,” Violet says, looking up at the Dark Lady with as much composure as she can muster. “And I don’t owe you any explanations.”

 “Don’t you?” Sylvanas says, quirking an eyebrow in near-amusement.

 “If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.” Violet grits her teeth harder, fighting to stay conscious above her blood loss. Sylvanas laughs, and the sudden sound is enough of a shock that Violet looks up at her, swaying as she does. The Dark Lady kneels, a smile still on her dark lips.

 “I’m not going to kill you,” she says, taking Violet’s chin in her hand with words that are thick and honeyed. “You’re worth much, much more to me alive and chained like an animal.”

 In a strangely tender gesture, Sylvanas brushes a stray lock of golden hair from where it’s fallen into Violet’s face, studying it for a moment before smoothing it behind her ear.

 “Get her out of my sight,” she says, standing and looking to the room’s entrance. Tyri’el stands frozen, having returned in time to see the tail-end of Sylvanas’s bizarre actions, glowing eyes wide with something caught between concern and shock.

 “Yes, my lady,” he says, hurrying up the stairs to help Violet to her feet.

 “Once she’s under Father Lazarus’s supervision once more, I want to speak with you, Tyri’el,” Sylvanas says, something sinister flashing across her delicate features.

 “As you wish,” Tyri’el says, bowing at the waist. He swallows the unease rising in his chest and steadies Violet as she sways on her feet. He takes her gently by the arm to help her down the stairs and she bows awkwardly, teetering on unstable legs made even weaker by the continued loss of blood from her wound. She holds her side as they descend the stairs, each breath taken sharply through her nose. When they’ve rounded the first turn of the corridor, Violet staggers, leaning hard against the wall with her forehead pressed to the dark stone.

 “What the hell does she want with me?” She says softly, her words so quiet that Tyri’el almost doesn’t hear her.

 “Nothing good, I’d imagine,” he replies, purposely _not_ imagining what the Dark Lady has in mind for the human. He’s still shaken by what he saw upon entering the throne room - even in life, he’d never known Sylvanas to act so tenderly. He shivers, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “We should go.”

 “Give me a moment,” Violet says, taking as deep of breaths as she can manage. All at once, the feeling of being watched hits her, and she turns around, ready to defend herself. There’s nothing there, the hall around them empty and quiet save for her labored breaths. She looks at Tyri’el, seeing the unease in his body language. “What is that?”

 “A banshee,” Tyri’el says quietly, his tone telling her wordlessly to watch what she says. “They’re the city’s invisible sentinels.”

 “Bloody hell,” Violet breathes, pale eyes darting around in the darkness. 

 “We should go,” Tyri’el repeats, an insistent edge to his voice. “You’re losing blood.”

 Violet closes her eyes, praying to the Light that she be protected in this hellish place, and nods. She only makes it a few steps from the wall before her knees buckle and she stumbles. Tyri’el catches her before she hits the ground, hurriedly muttering a few words, and in the next moment, they’re back in the infirmary. Violet gasps at the sudden pressure of the spell, and Tyri’el murmurs a quiet apology as he helps her back into her bed. His fresh change of clothes is once again stained with blood, and he sighs through his nose as he settles her against the covers.

 “Light above, child,” Father Lazarus says, hurrying over to them. He wastes no time in beginning to heal her, Light pouring from his fingertips. Violet’s cheeks are wet with silent tears, and she stares at the ceiling as the priest works, one hand clasped around her necklace, the other fisted tightly into the blanket beneath her. Tyri’el stands at the end of the bed and watches helplessly, once again feeling the prickling at the back of his neck that tells him a banshee is nearby. If Violet notices, she doesn’t show it. After a few minutes, Father Lazarus speaks quietly to Violet, and she nods, looking somewhat relieved through her fatigue. The Forsaken places his hand on her forehead and her eyes slip closed, arm relaxing and falling to her side as her breathing slows to that of someone in a deep sleep.

 “I won’t ask what the Dark Lady did to her,” Father Lazarus says, pulling Violet’s shirt down to cover her stomach once again, “but I would advise you to see that it doesn’t happen again. She needs to rest.”

 “I understand. Thank you, Father,” Tyri’el says, looking down at his clothes again. “Might I leave her in your care? I’d like to get out of these clothes.”

 “Of course, my boy.”

 Tyri’el thanks him again, teleporting to his quarters to change into yet another clean shirt and pair of trousers. From his desk, he takes a small box filled with bottles of shimmering liquid and a set of quills, as well as a few books and a stack of thick, blank parchment. He returns to the infirmary on foot, using the time to sort his thoughts. Through his confusion, he returns over and over to a single thought.

  _What have I done?_

 Rationally, he knows that Violet would have died in the forest if he hadn’t brought her back to the Undercity, but he curses himself for not bringing her somewhere less hostile. For Belore’s sake, he could have just as easily teleported them to Light’s Hope Chapel, or to any one of the Argent Dawn’s numerous outposts to the north. They would have healed her without question and she’d be free to leave as soon as she was well. He could have returned to the Undercity alone and no one would be the wiser to what had transpired. Instead, he’s condemned Violet to subjugation at the hands of the Dark Lady, something he truly wouldn’t wish on anyone, enemy or otherwise.

 Tyri’el curses under his breath, kicking a chunk of fallen stone hard enough to send it flying out in front of him. It sails clean through a form that hadn’t been there only a split second before, and he stops in his tracks.

 “The Queen grows impatient, scribe,” the banshee says, hollow voice grating against him like sandpaper. “You’d best not keep her waiting.”

 “Unless the Queen wishes to release me from supervision of the human, I will need my supplies with me in the infirmary if I’m to keep up with my appointed duties.”

 He gestures with full hands to the supplies he carries, and the spectral woman before him scoffs.

 “You should be grateful, little one. If anyone but the Archmage’s precious nephew brought back an Alliance dog as you did, they would have been flayed alive and hung from the front gate by their innards.” The banshee grins, ghostly teeth razored and bright behind her lips.

 “Be that as it may,” Tyri’el says, walking around her, “you can tell the Queen that I will be with her presently.”

 Behind him, the banshee snickers, fading out of sight. Tyri’el shakes his head, foul mood continuing as he walks, finally reaching the Apothecarium and the infirmary. He sets down his supplies on the bed next to Violet’s, glancing over to see that she’s still deeply asleep. His frown deepens and he leaves before his guilt gets the better of him, walking the short distance to the archway that marks the corridor to the throne room. The dreadguards stationed there shoot him looks of disgust, but he pays them no mind and makes it to the end of the hallway within a few minutes.

 “I hope the human’s insolence isn’t catching on you,” Beleron says, appearing in the archway ahead of his nephew. “It’s unlike you to be so disdainful.”

 “I’ve had a trying night, uncle,” Tyri’el says, walking past Beleron without even looking at him. “Do not add to it.”

 “There you are,” Sylvanas says, and she gestures with her head for him to follow her. He does, trailing behind as the Queen opens a false wall behind the throne and steps into the passageway beyond. Though he doesn’t look back, Tyri’el can hear his uncle’s footsteps and the wall sliding closed behind him as they travel through the torch-lit hallway. Their path branches out and Sylvanas turns left, her steps quick and lithe in her haste. They finally come upon a door, and Sylvanas pushes it open, not bothering to hold it ajar for the men behind her.

 Tyri’el steps into the room, followed by his uncle, who shuts the door behind him. It’s a war room, more or less, with three tables in the center. Two are larger, set up parallel to each other, one with detailed map of the Eastern Kingdoms and the other with an equally intricate map of Kalimdor. The smallest of the three tables sits between the other two, though it’s situated farther above them. The map it bears is much less detailed, with only a few points marked, but one location stands out above the rest. _Icecrown_ is written in large, heavily-penned letters, sitting just above a dagger that’s been driven nearly to the hilt into the wood of the table beneath the map.

 “I am disappointed in you, Tyri’el,” Sylvanas begins, leaning on the table bearing the map of the Eastern Kingdoms with hands splayed wide on the wood as she looks to him. “Though I can’t say your actions are entirely without merit.”

 “Thank you, my lady,” Tyri’el says, though it’s said more as a question than a statement.

 “That girl is your prime responsibility now,” Sylvanas says, straightening up. “You will report her every move to me. Everything she does, everything she says, will come directly to me. Do you understand?”

 “I’m afraid I don’t, my lady,” Tyri’el says, looking to his uncle for answers, but Beleron only nods at Sylvanas’s words without making a sound. Looking back to the Queen, Tyri’el speaks again. “I can’t make sense of what import she is to you.”

 “Nevermind that,” Sylvanas says, waving her hand dismissively. “I want you to find out what she’s hiding.”

 Sylvanas cuts Tyri’el off as soon as he opens his mouth to question her.

 “I don’t care how you do it,” she begins, walking up to him and taking his face with her thumb and forefinger on either cheek. “Use that pretty face of yours to get her talking.”

 “With all due respect,” he says, taking a step back to break from her grasp, “why are you assigning this responsibility to me? Surely there are others far more qualified to—”

 “Do as you’re told, Tyri’el,” Beleron says, coming to stand beside Sylvanas.

 “Might I at least know what I’m to be looking for?”

 “It’s of no concern to you what I’m looking for,” Sylvanas says flatly. “Make her trust you. Make her feel it’s safe to divulge her secrets.”

 “How do you propose I do that?” Tyri’el speaks through a set jaw, though his voice is even and calm.

 “As I said,” Sylvanas says with a sly grin, “use that pretty face of yours.”

 For a split second, Tyri’el catches his uncle glaring at the Queen, but it’s gone as soon as he blinks.

 “As you wish, my lady,” he says, bowing at the waist.

 “Good boy,” Sylvanas says, patting his cheek before turning back to the tables. Tyri’el exhales through his nose, feeling a coil of anger rise into his chest that sends a wave of heat across his skin. Beleron looks at him in question, but Tyri’el is already headed for the door by the time his uncle opens his mouth to speak. Tyri’el storms back into the throne room through the opening in the wall, passing the throne with gaze set straight ahead.

 “Take care around the girl,” the dreadlord says, and Tyri’el stops mid-stride to look back at it. The thing grins, smoldering eyes focused on the elf that looks almost comically tiny before it. “Even a chained wolf has teeth.”


	6. Better Left Unsaid

 Violet awakens some time later feeling heavy, each of her limbs resting hard against the mattress beneath her. There’s still a dull ache in her side, and she feels along her gut, finding only a raised patch of skin rather than the open wound she’d had before Father Lazarus had helped her to sleep. The coppery taste of stale blood still lingers in her mouth, and she runs her tongue over the insides of her cheeks to find tender spots of cut flesh on either side. Her jaw aches where Sylvanas had gripped her, and she shudders, the image of the elf’s eyes inches from her face flashing across her mind.

 She looks around without moving her head, finding the infirmary dark and quiet save for the flickering of candlelight off to one side. Raising her head, she finds Tyri’el hunched over a table on the far side of the room, brows knit in concentration as he pores over a thick book. His quill moves quickly across the parchment beside it, and another quill scribbles of its own accord next to that, small sparkles of arcane energy shed as the enchantment goes about its purpose. The table is piled high with books and papers, as well as various bottles of shimmering ink set haphazardly across the landscape of clutter. Violet watches him work, finally sitting up slowly. The bed creaks beneath her, and Tyri’el’s attention snaps in her direction.

 “Don’t get up,” he says, checking the timepiece sitting on one corner of the table and quickly noting the time on a piece of parchment. He sets his quill on its rest and the enchanted quill follows suit, floating to rest beside its mundane counterpart. Closing the book, he waves his hands over each other to pull the ink staining his fingers off his skin and send it flowing back into the ink pot he then caps off. He stands, rolling his shoulders a few times before making his way over to the bed next to the one Violet occupies, a trio of candles floating along with him to land on the bedside table.

 “As if I had a choice,” she says under her breath, watching him approach.

 “How are you feeling?” He asks, sitting on the other bed. Violet glares at him, and he sighs. “Forgive me. That was a foolish question. Are you still in pain?”

 “I’ll endure,” Violet says, shrugging.

 “That isn’t what I asked.”

 “Yes,” she grunts, pushing herself up with her elbows to sit with her back against the headboard. Tyri’el frowns, seeing her trying to hide a wince. “Made worse at the hands of your queen.”

 “Sylvanas gave you those, then?”

 “Gave me what?”

 Tyri’el stands and moves to one of the apothecary tables across the room, rummaging through the drawers and returning to her bedside. He hands her a small disk, and she takes it, lifting it to look at her reflection. The mirror is missing flecks of silver off its back, but it still gives her a full view of the dark bruises blossoming on her cheeks where the Queen had grabbed her. She touches them lightly, flinching as she finds them still tender.

 “Yes,” she says quietly, returning the mirror to him. “She grabbed me.”

 “Why?” Tyri’el sits again, mirror gripped in his hands.

 “How should I know? She was carrying on when she grabbed my face and made me look at your uncle.” Violet rubs her cheek, pale eyes fixed straight ahead with brow furrowed. “He tried to set me on fire.”

 Tyri’el’s eyes go wide and he looks down at his hands, fisting them as he tries to make sense of her words.

“What were they saying?”

 “I don’t speak Thalassian,” Violet says, glaring at him. She thinks for a moment, softly repeating the one word she heard Sylvanas and Beleron toss back and forth repeatedly as they argued. Tyri’el looks up at her, and she repeats it. “What does it mean?”

 “Depending on the context, and the accompanying predicate,” Tyri’el says, simplifying his explanation when he sees Violet’s confusion, “it translates into Common as daughter.”

 Violet’s hand snaps up to encompass her necklace, and closes her eyes, shaking her head.

 “I don’t understand,” she says. “I’m certain my mother never met either of them. Quite possibly she never met an elf in her life.”

 “What of your father?” Tyri’el strokes his chin absently, trying to make sense of her statement. “Perhaps they—“

 “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Violet snaps, grunting at the pain resulting from her forceful words.

 “I will speak to my uncle,” Tyri’el says, frown deepening at her reaction.

 “Do as you like. I’m going to die here, regardless.”

 A silence falls between them, hanging uncomfortably in the damp air, and Tyri’el finally breaks it by clearing his throat.

 “I’ll see about having some lunch sent over.”

 “Can’t be bothered to fetch it yourself?” Violet asks, watching him with hard eyes as he stands.

 “So long as you’re recovering, I can’t leave you without supervision. The Dark Lady has ordered you as my charge.”

 “As if I could escape in this condition,” Violet scoffs, shifting her weight to alleviate the pain budding in her side.

 “Are you hungry or not?”

 “That depends.” Violet raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to poison my food?”

 “Personally, no. But you’re beginning to make me question if I’d stop someone else from slipping something into your meal.”

 Her brow furrows, as if she’s trying to decide whether or not he’s serious in his statement. He holds her gaze, eyes narrowed and jaw set, and she finally sighs, shoulders relaxing in defeat.

 “Yes,” she says quietly, eyes cast down at her hands in her lap. “Thank you.”

 Tyri’el is momentarily taken aback by her sudden change in demeanor, but he leaves her bedside and moves to the door, catching the attention of the two dreadguards now stationed there, one on each side. He asks one of them if they could send word to the kitchens to bring him something to eat. He asks only for a meal for himself, knowing that it won’t come poisoned if there’s no mention made of a human eating it. Word has no doubt spread throughout the entire city, and to unknown reaches beyond if any adventurers had seen their trek to the throne room. The dreadguard agrees, shuffling off in the direction of the kitchens.

 “That’s her, then?” The remaining dreadguard asks, her glowing yellow eyes looking into the infirmary to see Violet where she’s propped up in bed. Tyri’el nods, and the Forsaken shakes her head. “Insult to my position, this assignment is. Don’t need to guard no human if she winds up dead.”

 “The Dark Lady might take issue with that,” Tyri’el says, unconsciously stepping between the dreaguard and the doorway, blocking her view of Violet.

 “Ruddy little thing ain’t even fit to be a bargainin’ chip.” She scowls, the patches of flesh missing from her cheeks showing clenched yellowing teeth. “Ain’t nobody from the bloody Alliance goin’ to trade nothin’ for a runt like her.”

 “I’m sure the Dark Lady has a plan for her,” Tyri’el says, leaving the doorway with a strange heat rippling across his skin. There’s a little flare of anger in his gut from the dreadguard’s statement, though he isn’t sure why her words have incensed him so. He rubs his forehead, breathing deeply to calm himself.

 A few minutes later, the dreadguard he’d sent for food returns, handing him a bowl of steaming stew and a yeast roll. Tyri’el thanks him, bringing the food over to Violet where she’s dozed off in her bed. She opens her eyes at the sound of his approach, and she seems to perk up at the sight of the bowl in his hand. He hands it to her, and she accepts it readily, picking up the spoon with a soft thanks to him. The spoon is very nearly to her lips when she stops short, pulling back to look at the bowl, sniffing the stew cautiously. Her nose wrinkles, and she looks up at him.

 “What is it?”

 “It’s better if you don’t think about it,” he says, and she looks back to it uncertainly. Tyri’el rolls his eyes, taking the utensil from her and eating the spoonful, emphasizing as he swallows. “See? Not poisoned.”

 Violet eyes him, waiting a few moments to see that he’s not falling over dead before going at the stew like it’s her first meal in many days. A pang of pity hits Tyri’el when he realizes it very well could be the first food she’s had in a long time. She’s thin, now that he’s looking at her, and his curiosity forces him to speak.

 “How long have you gone without eating?”

 Violet stops, the bowl already half eaten, and looks down at the stew, thinking for a moment.

 “I’m not sure. I lifted some bread from Tarren Mill but the trolls gave me no time to stop to eat it.”

 Tyri’el frowns, recalling the figure he saw the previous night, a memory that seems much more distant than it really is.

 “How long were you tracking them?”

 “A week, at most.” Violet rests her spoon in the bowl, shoulders falling. Her eyes fill with tears, and she sets the bowl on the bedside table, covering her face with her hand. The other hand again finds her necklace, clutching it against her chest. A myriad of questions fill Tyri’el’s mind, but he remains silent, sitting on the bed across from hers as he waits for her to speak. She does, speaking through silent tears. “They’re dead. I killed every last one of them and it’s not enough.”

 Tyri’el shifts uncomfortably, the guilt returning to gnaw at his conscience. He remains silent, watching her without knowing what to say to comfort her, or if she would accept his condolences if he offered them.

 “It’s poor consolation, but I’ve shared a grief like yours,” he says finally, speaking without really thinking. Violet looks up at him in question, her hand still covering her nose and mouth as she struggles to compose herself. Tyri’el sighs, wiping his palms on his pants and keeping his eyes downcast. “I lost my brother not long ago. Perhaps long to a human.”

 Violet’s eyes soften, and she drops her hand, sniffing before speaking.

 “How did he die?” She asks it softly, looking at the elf before her in a new light. She sees the same despair written across his features that are no doubt mirrored in her own. Tyri’el swallows hard, and Violet is quick to amend her statement. “Forgive me, it’s not my business.”

 “No,” Tyri’el says, shaking his head. “It’s not.”

 “Forgive me,” she says again, and he nods, clearing his throat and looking away. “And thank you.”

 “What for?”

 “Saving my life.” She shakes her head as if to clear away an unpleasant thought. “I allowed my grief to make me reckless.”

 “Don’t thank me for it,” Tyri’el says, shaking his head now. “I’ve condemned you. I should be asking your forgiveness.”

 He says the last part softly, closing his eyes and hanging his head.

 “I don’t forgive you,” Violet says, and Tyri’el nods, having expected as much. “But at the very least, you’ve treated me better than any member of the Horde I’ve ever met.”

 “You haven’t met many of us, then.”

 “My fair share.”

 “We’re not monsters,” Tyri’el says, looking up at her. “The Alliance may treat us as such, but there was a time when my people stood under the banner bearing the golden lion.”

 “Some still do.”

 “No,” Tyri’el says, standing up. “Those that could live without the lifeblood of the Sunwell remained allied with Stormwind. Those of us who could not…” 

He shakes his head, walking over to the table filled with his inscription supplies and digs through the stack of books there. He selects one bound in blood red leather, the title gilded in flowing Thalassian script, and takes a small velvet pouch from one of the boxes. He returns to her bed and tosses the book beside her.

 “While you’re here, you may as well educate yourself. Ignorance does more damage than hatred.”

 “Should you really be sharing such secrets with the enemy?”

 Tyri’el snorts.

 “There are no secrets in that book. Only things that many choose to forget.” He looks at her, fel-green eyes searching her face. “And you aren’t my enemy. Not yet, anyway.”

 Violet picks up the book, running her fingers over the grooves in the cover, and opens it. The first page is written in Thalassian, and she sighs as she flips through the pages to find that the entirety of the book is as well.

 “I can’t read Thalassian,” she says, and Tyri’el hands her the velvet pouch. She opens it, pulling out a small, clear disk that looks to be carved from some kind of crystal. It shimmers with pink tendrils of arcane energy, fluxing in her hand. “What is this?”

 “Pass it over the text,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow at him. He nods to encourage her, and she flips to a random page, seeing words that have no meaning to her. She does as he instructs, holding the lens over the page and gasps, moving the lens away and back again. The unfamiliar text turns into Common wherever the disk passes over it, then back to Thalassian as soon as the lens is removed.

 “This is…” She begins, turning the disk over in her hands. “What is this?”

 “A device of my own creation. I use it for transcribing items with damaged texts.” He sets the bag on the bedside table and his eyes narrow. “Be careful with it.”

 Violet nods, a bit more life to her now. She turns to the front of the book and passes the lens over the title page and the name penned there.

 “You wrote this?” She asks, and he turns around from where he’d returned to the table. He nods, eyes turning sad again.

 “My people were nearly eradicated, and very well may yet be. Our legacy must be preserved.” He speaks with such conviction that Violet watches him a moment longer as he sits down and resumes his work. He can feel her eyes on him, but his face remains neutral as he jots down the few bits of information he’d gleaned from their conversation. It makes him feel sick to take notes like this, but Sylvanas was very clear in her orders.

Time passes in silence, the only sounds in the room being the quiet scratches of Tyri’el’s quill as he works and the turning of pages as Violet reads.

The book is incredibly thorough, starting with the War of the Ancients and Dath’Remar Sunstrider’s exodus across the sea from Kalimdor to Quel’Thalas, covering thousands of years of history and culture of the quel’dorei. There are small notes scribbled in the ledgers of some pages, and Violet surmises this must not be the final copy of the book, even though it’s expertly penned. She turns the page, finding not another section of text, but rather a chart of sorts. The title reads _The Convocation of Silvermoon_ , with seven names arranged in a circle around a central point that reads _Sunstrider_. Most of the names have lines through them, all marked with the same year. Violet grits her teeth, not allowing herself to think about that time in history and turns the page.

 The following pages go on to detail the genealogy of the seven names. She skims over the information, stopping on the page titled _Sunfury_. Here, too, most of the names are crossed off, also bearing the same year towards the bottom. Violet finds Tyri’el in the tree, but the names around his are blurred, looking very much like they’d been smeared with water. No, not water, she realizes, and looks up at Tyri’el. He’s still focused on his work, hands once again stained with ink as he writes. Something wrenches in her chest and she shuts the book, suddenly feeling like she’s intruded on something very private that was probably not meant to be seen by human eyes.

Using what strength she’s regained in the last few hours, Violet pushes herself up and swings her legs off the bed, testing them as she stands slowly. They’re still weak but they carry her over to the table behind Tyri’el where she sets down the book and the disk now inside its pouch. Tyri’el jumps and knocks over the bottle of ink he’s been working from. It spreads across the table, soaking all the papers there, and drips over the edge of the table and onto his trousers. He curses, standing quickly and holding his hands out towards the ink. The dark substance stops as if frozen and with quick motions, Tyri’el sends it flowing back into the bottle, but the papers he’d been working on are thoroughly soaked. He exhales sharply through his nose, looking over at her.

“I’m so sorry,” Violet says, stepping backwards. Tyri’el lifts his hands in exasperation at his ruined work, and Violet flinches away like she expects him to strike her. He stops, brow furrowing and a deep frown overcoming him.

“It’s…it’s all right,” he says, lowering his hands. “You’re very quiet.”

 “Force of habit,” she says, and he begins to ask her what she means, but she gestures to the table. “I…can I help you clean that up?”

 “No,” Tyri’el says, peeling the soaked parchment from the table and stacking them all neatly in one corner. “You’ve done quite enough.”

 Violet’s face falls and she returns to her bed without another word. She lies down, pulling the covers up over her and turning so her back is to him. Once his workspace is cleared as much as it can be, Tyri’el looks back to her, seeing her huddled under the covers like a small child. The guilt that had ebbed over the last few hours slams into him again, and he shakes his head, cursing himself under his breath.

A bit of humor returns to him when he realizes that Violet had inadvertently destroyed the notes he’d been taking for Sylvanas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tyri'el. Three pairs of ruined pants in one day. Serves him right for feeding Violet cockroach stew ;)


	7. Burning Bridges

Time passes strangely for a human trapped in the Undercity. Without the ability to see the passing of the sun and the moon in the sky, Violet quickly loses track of days and nights until she’s wholly unsure how long she’s been there. If she marks the passage of time with how many times Tyri’el has stopped working at his table and gone to sleep like anyone would at the end of a long day, it’s been about a week. Long enough, at least, for her to have gotten used to the stench of the city so that it no longer leaves her nauseated.

With Father Lazarus’s attentive healing, she’s soon free of pain and more than able to move about the infirmary without struggle. Boredom begins to take hold of her mind and manifests itself as restlessness. She paces the infirmary, ever under the watchful eye of Tyri’el and the dreadguards permanently stationed just outside the door. More than once, she thinks to ask Tyri’el if there is a way for her leave the infirmary, even if for just a little while, but she never voices her curiosity.

Violet begins to feel very much like a caged animal, and at times, the walls of the simple round room seem to press in on her and she begins to panic. It’s in those moments that she catches Tyri’el watching her, brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down in concern, but he looks away as soon as she meets his eyes. There’s been no sign of the Archmage, and no word from the Queen, which only adds to her growing unease.

Tyri’el has been quiet for the most part, asking her how she’s feeling when she wakes up and bringing her meals when there’s someone to watch her while he makes a trip to the kitchen, but otherwise he keeps to himself. The first few times she asks him if there’s some way she can assist him to pass the time, he politely declines, and she’s left to return to her bed to stare at the ceiling. Today, though, he thinks on her request for a moment and nods, pulling up a chair and gesturing for her to sit beside him.

 “You’re a scribe, then?” Violet asks when he hands her a stack of letters. He nods, taking a deep purple wax stick and golden metal stamp from one of his numerous boxes.

 “My official title is Royal Scribe of the Undercity, but it’s a waste of breath. I’m mainly referred to as 'You There'.” He says it without humor, setting the wax and seal before her. He raises an eyebrow at her. “I assume you know how to seal a letter.”

 “Yes, milord,” Violet says, glaring at him with her accent coming out stronger to sound like a typical human peasant. Tyri’el sighs in response, passing her a candle.

 “Your accent,” he begins, pulling a pile of what looks like supply requisition forms out from under a stack of books. “It’s a little too northern to keep telling people you’re from Stormwind.”

 Violet snorts, holding the wax and candle over an envelope.

 “I am from Stormwind.”

 “But you weren’t born there,” he says, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

 “No,” she says, pressing the seal into the wax for a moment to leave behind the crest of the Forsaken.

 “Where in Gilneas do you hail from, then?”

 Violet looks up at him, her seaglass eyes narrowed at his words.

 “Nowhere you’ll have heard of.”

 “Try me.” He looks over at her, honest curiosity behind his stern gaze. She holds his stare for a moment.

 “Greyhaven.”

 “Along the western coast,” Tyri’el says, nodding as he dips his quill into a fresh bottle of ink. “Down the mountain from Greymane Manor.”

 “You know a lot about the country for a member of the Horde.”

 “I’ll remind you again that there was a time I belonged to the Alliance,” Tyri’el says, scribbling some math on a spare piece of parchment. “I spent a few years in Gilneas learning the local Common dialects.”

 “When?” Violet asks, fanning a letter back and forth to cool the fresh wax.

 “About a hundred years ago, give or take a decade.” He says it casually, but Violet pauses, mouth slightly agape. He looks over at her. “What?”

 “Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and resuming her work. “I suppose I forgot how long elves live.”

 “Long enough,” he says on a sigh, crossing out a line of addition he’s figured incorrectly. They’re both silent for a moment before Tyri’el speaks again. “How long did you spend here in Lordaeron after the wall closed?”

 Violet gasps, his question startling her into letting her fingers drift too close to the candle’s flame. She drops everything in her hands and wax splatters across the letter as the candle clatters to the floor and extinguishes on contact. When she bends to pick up the candle, Tyri’el catches her other hand and presses a small chunk of ice to the fingers she’d burned. The sudden cold makes her jump again, and she straightens up with a soft thanks as she pulls her hand from his grasp.

 “I didn’t know mages could read minds,” she says flatly, peeling up the wax she spilled with her fingernails.

 “We can’t. Not like that, anyway,” Tyri’el says, taking the ruined letter and unfolding it to begin rewriting it. “I can tell from your accent.”

 “I find that highly suspect,” Violet says, rolling a glob of dried wax between her fingers, her other hand still wrapped around the ice he’d conjured.

 “I’m a linguist. It comes with the territory, so to speak.” He finishes penning the first line of the letter and looks over at her. “How long?”

 “A few years,” Violet says quietly, eyes far away as she touches her locket with the fingers she’d burned.

 “Before or after the plague?”

 “Before,” she says, blinking away the moisture in her eyes. “And during.”

 Tyri’el’s quill pauses on the parchment, resuming a moment later.

 “That’s what led you to Stormwind, then?”

 “No,” she says shortly, standing from her chair and walking across the infirmary to her bed and the box of matches on the bedside table there. She returns, sitting again and striking a match to re-light the candle. Her hands shake as she does, a detail not lost on Tyri’el. He sighs inwardly, feeling positively awful for prying as he is. She’s too close for him to make notes on their conversation, so he files the information away for a later time.

 “There,” Violet says a few minutes later, placing the last sealed letter on top of the stack of its counterparts. Tyri’el can tell from her tone that she’s still upset, and he opens his mouth to begin an apology, closing it when words fail him. “Is there anything else?”

 It takes a moment for Tyri’el to realize she’s asking if she can help him with anything else, and not that she’s asking him if there’s anything else he wants to know. He thinks for a moment, eyes finding the collection of empty ink bottles littering the table.

 “The mortar and pestle,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder to one of the apothecary tables across the room. “Please.”

 Violet rises without a word and moves to the other side of the room, eyes searching the shelves there without finding what she needs.

 “On top of the reagents cabinet,” Tyri’el says, turning around to point her in the right direction. Violet nods, having to stand on her tiptoes to reach the top of the cabinet. The simple linen shirt she wears rides up as she stretches, and Tyri’el notices the dark, raised skin of a scar on her back. It’s old, by the look of it, but it’s shaped so oddly that by the time Violet has the mortar and pestle and turns back to him, he can’t tell what exactly caused the scar. It was sparse, like a series of stabs or burns arranged in a half circle from what he could see. Violet realizes he’d been looking at her and frowns, free hand pulling down on the bottom hem of her shirt. Tyri’el turns away, cheeks burning.

 Violet returns to the table, setting down the mortar and pestle next to him hard enough to make the ink bottles on the table rattle and clink together. She sits down again, pulling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Tyri’el murmurs a soft thanks and goes about milling herbs to make new ink. Violet watches him without speaking, chin resting on her knees.

 “Magister,” a gruff voice says from the door, causing both of them to jump. Violet looks to the door and pales, finding it filled with an orc, green skin gleaming with sweat in the light of the torches on the walls. Tyri’el turns, setting down his quill and rising to his feet.

 “Mok-rah, Harmok,” Tyri’el says approaching the orc and putting his fist over his heart. The orc does the same.

 “Sinu a’manore, Tyri’el,” he says, and Tyri’el chuckles.

 “You’re getting better. Less emphasis on the last syllable, though.”

 “Your language will never sound right coming from the mouth of an orc, I think.”

 “Perhaps,” Tyri’el says with a laugh. “What brings you to the Undercity?”

 “The Warchief sent me to request your services as a translator.”

 “What for?”

 “Grand Magister Rommath will be visiting Orgrimmar in two-day's time, and he doesn’t speak a word of Orcish, nor does the Warchief speak fluent Thalassian. He hoped you would be an intermediary between the two of them during their meeting.”

 Tyri’el sighs, running his hand down his face.

 “Rommath does speak Orcish,” he says, shaking his head. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

 “The Warchief suspected as much, Magister. But he enjoys your company nonetheless.”

 “And I his,” Tyri’el says, looking over his shoulder at Violet. She’s watched the whole conversation from her chair with wide eyes trained on Harmok, looking ready to jump into a fight if need be. “Unfortunately, the Dark Lady has assigned me rather…important duties that require me to stay in the Undercity.”

 “I spoke to the Banshee Queen before coming here. She told me to give you this.” Harmok hands Tyri’el a piece of parchment, sealed with the crest of the Forsaken. The orc follows Tyri’el’s line of vision and stiffens when he sees Violet, and she does much the same, eyes darting to the table to find something she might defend herself with.

  _“You realize there’s a human over there, don’t you?”_ He says, slipping into Orcish.

  _"Yes,”_ Tyri’el replies, nodding. _“That’s the duty I was speaking of. I’m to supervise her as a prisoner of the Dark Lady.”_

  _“Is she a spy?”_

  _“Not as far as I can tell. I don’t know what the Dark Lady has planned for her, nor why I have to keep watch of her.”_ Tyri’el opens the parchment and scans the note inside, penned in the Queen’s handwriting. He groans. _“Apparently I am free to assist the Warchief.”_

  _“He will be pleased. I will wait for you to gather your effects and we can depart.”_

  _"Very well,”_ Tyri’el says, and Harmok puts his fist to his heart and casts a hard look at Violet. He leaves the infirmary and Tyri’el walks back to the table with a scowl on his face.

 “What was that about?” Violet asks, her eyes still on the doorway.

 “I’ve been asked to travel to Orgrimmar for a few days.” He caps off his ink bottle, not bothering to remove the ink from his hands. “And Sylvanas has given permission.”

 “What about me?” Violet asks, her voice spiking. “You can’t leave me alone at her mercy.”

 “I don’t have a choice,” Tyri’el says, waving around the note from Sylvanas before tossing it onto the table. Violet swallows hard, pulse pounding in her ears. With Tyri’el gone, she can’t help but feel Sylvanas will take the chance to subjugate her further. Tyri’el sees her distress, the same fear filling his mind, too. There’s no telling what Sylvanas might do to her while he’s gone, and the nearly-healed bruises on Violet’s cheeks reinforce the notion of violence towards the human. He speaks, voice heavy as his sagging shoulders.

“I am sorry.”

 Violet nods, pushing away her fear and steeling her expression.

 “How long do I have?” She asks, and Tyri’el knows what she’s asking of him.

 “I leave presently.”

 “Light help me,” Violet says, closing her eyes.

 “Indeed,” Tyri’el says, extinguishing the candles set across the table. “I’ll return in a few days.”

 Violet nods, eyes unfocused and looking off into space. She’s shaking, adrenaline already coursing through her veins from the onset of her instinctive fight-or-flight response to this new threat. Tyri’el leaves the infirmary, stopping at the door to cast a last glance at Violet, and he silently prays he’ll return to find her intact and unharmed. He knows in the pit of his stomach that she won’t be.

 Once Tyri’el is gone, it takes Violet a few moments to pull herself together. She takes the folded parchment Tyri’el had dropped on the table and carefully pulls it apart, spreading it flat with a quick glance to make sure she’s still alone in the room. Reaching across the table, she pulls open a drawer in one of the boxes and pulls out the velvet pouch containing the enchanted disk Tyri’el had shown her earlier in the week. It shimmers in her hand, and she holds it above the parchment until she can read the whole message at once. The Thalassian turns to Common before her eyes.

  _ **You will travel to Orgrimmar to assist Thrall with whatever he needs, for as long as he needs. The girl stays. I expect a full report before you depart.** _

 “Report?” Violet asks quietly, rereading the message. The pieces fall into place in the next instant and her eyes widen, a flare of anger overcoming her. “That—”

 She throws the disk to the floor with enough force to leave a chip in the flagstone, and it breaks, sending shards in every direction. There’s no room for remorse, her entire body shaking now from anger rather than fear. With one fluid motion of her arms, everything on the table is swept onto the floor, ink bottles shattering and boxes of quills and parchment spilling their contents.

How could she have been so foolish? She should never have thought she could trust Tyri’el with any of her past. It’s so clear to her now - he’s only been feigning interest to glean information to give to Sylvanas. It’s obvious to her that she played right into his hand without even realizing it.

 Violet’s whole body is shaking violently, and she grips the table and forces herself to calm down. Deeps breaths come ragged and strained at first, but she is able to slow her racing pulse until her body is only shaking from sobs. She leans against the wall, sliding down to the floor to hug her knees to her chest, clutching her locket against her still-hammering heart.

 The anger gives way to shame when she realizes what she’s done. With shaking hands, she collects the crystalline shards of the disk and sets them carefully in a pile before her, where she can see it and be reminded of her recklessness.

 “Oh, mother,” she says between sobs, her hands returning to her necklace. “What am I going to do?”


	8. Until She Bleeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Thoughts of self-harm/suicide.

 Violet spends a half hour on her hands and knees, picking up every shard of glass she can find strewn across the infirmary floor. The pieces of Tyri’el’s reading glass are safely tucked away in their pouch and stowed in one of the many boxes she’s carefully refilled, and she swallows hard at the thought of having to explain herself upon his return. There’s still ink splashed across the floor, but it’s long since dried and she doesn’t have the tools to clean it up, so it stays where it is as a grim reminder. She pads carefully around the area in her bare feet, looking for any glass she might have missed.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and she turns, finding herself still alone in the room. Scolding herself for being so jumpy, she goes back to her work. Something cold clamps onto the back of her neck and she cries out, whirling around to come face-to-face with an image of death itself.

 The spectral woman stands at least a foot taller than her, clearly reminiscent of her elven heritage, but the similarities stop there. Violet can see straight through her, but her eyes burn with cold, dark fire, and her ghastly pale skin is stretched taut over a grin of razor-sharp teeth. The air around her had been tepid at best, but now it feels like an evening in late autumn, and Violet shivers. This only seems to please the banshee, and she looks the human up and down, dead eyes coming back to her face as she lowers the clawed hand that had grabbed her.

 “So warm,” she says, voice tinny and otherworldly, and another shudder runs up Violet’s spine at the sound. “So soft.”

 “What do you want from me?” Violet asks, wholly unsure she wants to learn the answer. The banshee’s grin widens, showing more pointed teeth than any humanoid should rightfully have.

 “My mistress requires your presence, little girl,” she says, gesturing towards the door. “She trusts you can carry yourself to the throne room.”

 “Without an escort?”

 “You will be followed, make no mistake about that.” The banshee gestures again to the door. “My mistress grows impatient, child.”

 “Very well,” Violet says, scooting away from the spectral woman and moving to her bed. When she sits and pulls her boots from under it, the banshee is gone. She breathes a sigh of relief, though it is short-lived.  She can’t quell the dread overcoming her like a long-reaching shadow, and she forces herself not to think of what Sylvanas has planned for her. Pulling on a boot, she finds there’s something stuffed into the bottom, and she reaches in to retrieve it. It’s her knife, the one she’s been sure was confiscated with the rest of her belongings. A small smile plays on her lips and she silently thanks the Light, pulling on both boots and stuffing the sheathed blade down into one of them before standing.

The dreadguards glare at her as she leaves the infirmary, but they don’t try to stop her, and she walks out into the city, every muscle tensed and ready to defend herself. The only time she’d been to the throne room was when she first woke up in the infirmary, and she was entirely out of sorts the whole way there, following Tyri’el without the slightest idea where she was going. Now is much the same, and she looks to either side, trying to remember which direction they’d turned.

 “Right, ya wretch,” one of the dreadguards calls, and Violet turns to look back, finding the Forsaken gesturing with her thumb. The human nods, not bothering to thank her, and begins her journey. The city is far larger than she’d realized, the walls rising perhaps a hundred feet before disappearing into a thick, unnatural haze that obscures the ceiling from view. A canal runs alongside the path she walks, filled with bright green liquid that stings at her nose and makes her gag. Disconcerting as the city itself is, it’s the citizens that by far frighten her the most.

 Father Lazarus and Bridget are fairly intact in their undeath, and the dreadguard’s faces are always obscured by their helmets, leaving her with no real impression of just how badly the plague had affected some of the citizens of Lordaeron. Some Forsaken are missing chunks of flesh down to the bone, all in various states of suspended decay. Some appear to be held together only with sutures, and still others are missing whole parts of their bodies. One man she passes shoots dagger looks at her, the entire lower portion of his face torn away. Violet’s stomach turns, her disgust no doubt plain on her face.

 No one hassles her, or even speaks to her for that matter, and though she is thankful for it, the silence of the citizens begins to frighten her. Rightfully, they should have killed her on sight, as they would any human caught in their city, but they only watch her as she passes, their glowing yellow eyes barely hiding their contempt. She can only speculate, but she guesses that Sylvanas must have made some kind of decree to her people not to harm her, something that hints at a far more sinister motive than anything she's imagined thus far.

 Passing under an archway, Violet stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide. Heading towards her is something she has no words for at first, and her stomach turns again as she realizes what she’s looking at. It’s a massive creature, looking like it’s made of corpses cruelly and haphazardly sewn together to form a hulking, stinking giant of dead flesh. Entrails leak from its gut, swaying gently as it lumbers towards her, as do three massive arms that each hold large weapons covered in dark, dried blood. Its dead eyes are trained on her, and she settles into a defensive crouch, raising her fists as the only weapons she has. The thing stops a few feet from her, and she thinks she might pass out from the stench radiating off it in waves.

 “Move,” it says, and Violet is unsure how it’s able to produce words, but she obeys, pressing her back against the wall with hands still held before her. The abomination passes her without another glance, continuing on its patrol and leaving a trail of dark, putrid slime behind it. She claps a hand over her mouth, thankful it’s been hours since her last meal. Her stomach still roils, but she keeps walking, albeit now on shaky legs.

 Following the curve of the city’s walls, she soon finds herself at a large archway that she recognizes as the entrance to the throne room. It’s a welcome sight, but only for a moment. She knows that at the end of that hallway lies the Banshee Queen, ready to serve whatever sentence she’s conceived of to deal with her. Though she doubts the Light can hear her in such a cursed, desecrated place, she prays for protection nonetheless and begins her trek down the hallway. Some of the dreadguards are smiling as she passes, looking at her like she’s an animal about to be thrown into a ring to fight for its life. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows they’re right.

 The throne room looms before her, and she takes in a deep breath through her mouth as she enters. It’s much the same as it was the first time she was there, filled with the same inhabitants. Nathanos and his blighthounds stand to the right of the throne, and the dreadlord stands to the left. It watches her like a hawk observing its prey, a smug grin creeping onto its face when she pales at the sight of it. Beleron is there, too, standing in front of the throne, and he turns when he hears her approaching footsteps. There’s a fire behind his eyes, and his upper lip curls in disgust. Beyond him is Sylvanas, standing from her throne without an ounce of emotion on her face.

 “I see you’ve recovered from your injuries,” she says as Violet ascends to the top of the dais, her eyes trained low.

 “Yes, my lady,” she says, voice shaking.

 “I’ve been at a loss with what to do with you, Violet,” Sylvanas says, closing the gap between them to only a few inches. “What use could a child like you serve within the Forsaken?”

 “Anything you wish, my lady.”

 “Speak only when spoken to, girl,” Beleron says, coming to stand at the Queen’s side. Sylvanas quiets him with a motion of her hand, and forces Violet to look up at her with her other hand gripping her chin.

 “I can’t have you taking up a bed in the infirmary. Those are needed for soldiers of the Horde.” Sylvanas smirks, studying the human’s face. “And I won’t take paying customers from the inn by simply giving you a room there.”

 The Queen motions with her head and a Forsaken man steps from the shadows, coming up the stairs to stand next to Violet.

 “Tell me, Norman. Does she look fit to serve as your new scullery maid?” Sylvanas releases her grip on Violet’s chin and turns her to face the man. He looks her up and down, scowl plastered on his misshapen face.

 “She’ll do,” he says gruffly. “Ain’t gotta be pretty to scrub floors.”

 “Excellent,” Sylvanas says, voice talking on an almost musical quality. “She’s yours to do with as you see fit, then.”

 Violet looks between the innkeeper and the Queen, and then to Beleron, but she finds no sympathy from any of them.

 “My lady, surely I could be of better use to you as a scout or a—”

 “You’ll do as you’re told,” Sylvanas says, nodding to Norman. “I give you my full permission to discipline her if she misbehaves.”

 “Thank you, my lady,” Norman says, bowing and grabbing Violet by the arm to begin dragging her with him down the stairs.

 “Please, my lady,” Violet begins, but it’s clear that her pleas fall on deaf ears and she quiets herself. Once they’re out of the throne room, she pulls herself roughly from the innkeeper’s grasp and he turns, striking her across the face with the back of his bony hand. She stumbles backwards, wiping her nose to find that it’s begun to bleed.

 “You’re mine now,” Norman says. “Best start actin’ like it.”

 “Y-yes sir,” she manages, tears in the corners of her eyes. She feels the weight of the knife in her boot against her leg as she follows him silently through the city. They enter the central sector and make their way up a series of ramps to a large doorway bearing a sign that marks it as the inn. Inside is a lobby of sorts, with a large hearth and an assortment of chairs and sofas arranged around it. There’s a small desk to one side bearing a large, leather-bound ledger and a very old till. Norman continues beyond the desk into a hallway that leads farther in, and Violet follows closely.

 They enter a large kitchen, passing through it to head down a set of stairs into a cellar that smells of damp earth. A rat scurries over Violet’s foot and she startles, squinting against the darkness that Norman seems to have no trouble moving about in. He stops at a door that’s hanging crooked on rusty hinges and pulls it open, gesturing inside.

 “This is your room,” he says, and Violet looks in, finding it’s little more than a closet, mostly filled with cleaning tools like brooms and buckets. He digs around one of the shelves inside and throws a bundle of fabric at her. The dust stirred up from it makes her cough, and she groans as her bruised nose throbs from the movement. “That’s your uniform.”

 Violet nods, running her fingers over the rough-hewn cloth of the dress and apron.

 “Get changed and get upstairs. Got lots for you to do.”

 “Yes, sir,” she says, and Norman grumbles, pushing past her and ascending the stairs to leave her alone in the dark. She changes quickly, fumbling in the darkness to strip off the trousers and shirt she’d worn since she arrived in the city and pulls on the dress. It’s rough against her skin and smells musty, but she ties on the apron and throws her old clothes into the closet before checking to see that she still has her knife.

 “Move it, girl,” Norman calls down the stairs, and Violet clambers up the stairs, not wanting to anger him again. He shoves a bucket and stiff-bristled brush into her hands, gesturing to a door on the other side of the kitchen. “Spigot’s out back. Floors need scrubbin’.”

 “Which floors, sir?”

 “All of ‘em.”

 Violet blinks, the empty bucket feeling suddenly heavy in her hands.

 “You deaf girl? Go.” Norman waves her away, and Violet nods. Beyond the door she finds a small courtyard, if it could really be called that, and fills the bucket at the rusty spigot there. The water comes out clear, something that surprises her, and she hauls the bucket back into the inn. The kitchen seems the most logical place to begin, so she kneels beside the bucket and begins to scrub the floor, tucking her necklace under the hem of her dress.

 The days begin to blur together again, getting lost under the constant workload forced on her. Three floors of rooms comprise the inn, as well as the ground floor lobby and kitchen, and they all must be scrubbed by the end of the day, every day. Her hands dry and begin to crack from all the time they spend in water, whether it’s from the floor or from scouring dishes, and her knees bruise and bleed from the hours spent kneeling on cold cobblestone. Bedding needs washing and floors need sweeping, and Norman works her nearly eighteen hours a day until she can barely stand from exhaustion and muscle strain. The women that work in the kitchen treat her no better, kicking her when she doesn’t move out of their way quick enough or if the pots and pans aren’t made clean enough after a mealtime rush.

 Each night, Violet returns to her closet, aching and ready to collapse, having only a threadbare blanket to keep her warm in the dampness of the cellar. She weeps uncontrollably until blessed sleep claims her, never left alone to rest long enough to regain the strength she needs for the next day. More than once, she digs up her knife from where she’d buried it under her makeshift bed and unsheathes it, watching the light of the single candle glint on the razor-sharp blade. Just one cut, she tells herself, one flick of the wrist and she’d be free of this hell. The knife always returns to its hole in the ground, unblemished by blood, when she reminds herself that not even death could release her from the grasp of the Banshee Queen. Whether it’s from exhaustion or by her own hand, death will never mean rest so long as she’s a prisoner in this city. And so, each day Violet rises, stiff, aching and shivering from the cold, and goes about her chores.

 She lets her resentment fester, lets it simmer under the surface, and keeps it close to her heart, telling herself that when the time comes, she’ll unleash it.  The Banshee Queen will be the first to go, she tells herself, and smiles grimly at the thought as she scrubs a sheet against a washboard. Then she’ll go for the Archmage, as he’ll no doubt be close by Sylvanas when she strikes, as will Nathanos. With them gone, it leaves only the dreadlord, though she suspects it might not react so poorly to the Queen’s demise. Demons are fickle beings.

 What, then, would she do to Tyri’el? Her first instinct is to knock him out and leave him tied to a tree in the midst of Arathi raptor country, but the thought calls up an unexpected pang of guilt in her gut. After all, he has been, at the very least, civil to her since they’d crossed paths. With a hiss in her mind, she recalls the note he’d received from Sylvanas just before leaving for Orgrimmar, and all traces of guilt wash away, replaced with a white-hot anger that has her hands wringing the sheet like she's breaking the neck of some small creature.

 Patience, she tells herself. All good things to those who wait.


	9. Digging

Dumping an armful of rugs onto the ground, Violet coughs violently from the stirred dust and rubs her eyes with the backs of her hands. When the air has cleared somewhat, she hangs the rugs one by one onto a rope tied between two hooks anchored into the stone of the walls and takes another deep breath. Broom in hand, she begins to beat at the rugs, forcing the accumulated dust out of them in violent, precise strikes. It’s extremely cathartic, and she’s soon imagining that they aren’t rugs at all, that they’re something more…elven. She halts the beatings a few minutes later, chest heaving and brow covered in sweat, and lets the broom fall to the ground with an unceremonious clatter. Pulling down the rug in front of her, she jumps, finding Beleron standing behind it.

“Archmage,” she stammers, dropping into a curtsy and keeping her gaze low. “Forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”

“It is forgiven,” Beleron says, looking her over with a quirked eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, sir,” Violet replies, working at pulling down the rest of the rugs. “I was just finishing my duties for the day.”

“I would like you to join me for dinner.”

“Sir?” Violet asks, stopping mid-gesture to look at him incredulously. “Me?”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking that you and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I was hoping to remedy that.” He coughs, like the words scratch at his throat as he says them.

“I’m…flattered, Archmage, really I am, but I don’t think the Queen would approve of such a thing.” Violet swallows hard, avoiding his hawk-like gaze as she gathers the rugs into her arms. “Nor would my master.”

“It was Sylvanas’s idea, actually,” Beleron says, and he reaches out to take the rugs from Violet. “Please, allow me.”

“Sir, I don’t thi—”

“Please,” he repeats, and Violet hands them to him reluctantly. He takes them, gesturing to the back door of the inn. “After you.”

Violet obeys, walking up the short set of stairs and into the back room of the inn, looking back to make sure that he’s following her.

“There you are,” Norman says, coming into the room. “Those pans aren’t going to scour themse—”

“Forgive me, Norman, but the Dark Lady has sent me to relieve Miss Devereaux of her duties early this evening.”

“O-of course, Archmage. If the Queen insists.”

“She does.” Beleron’s response is curt, and he sets down the rugs onto a nearby chair, brushing the dust from his robes. He looks up at Violet. “Shall we?”

“I…” Violet begins, but swallows her words, nodding and following him outside and back into the city. “Sir, where are we going?”

“To my office,” Beleron says, glancing over his shoulder at her where she trails nervously behind. “I hope that won’t be a problem.”

“No, sir,” Violet says, though she can’t quell the uneasiness creeping over her as they walk. Once they’re out of sight of the inn, Beleron stops and turns to her.

“Have you ever experienced a teleportation spell before?”

“Yes, sir, I have.” She shifts uneasily, not fully trusting whatever he seems to be up to.

“Good. It will save us the walk.” Beleron speaks a few words and an arc of blue energy springs up around him, and he beckons for her to stand beside him. She obeys, tiny sparks of energy pricking at her skin as she steps inside the circle, and in the next second they’re standing in a completely different space. On first sight, it looks very much like a library, the walls covered in bookshelves from the floor to the high ceilings. A staircase rests against the far wall, curving alongside the perimeter of the circular room, and Beleron heads for it. Violet follows, marveling at the massive collection as she goes.

“This is your office?” She asks, eyes wide and child-like.

“I thought we could start with some tea,” Beleron says as they reach the top of the staircase, disregarding her statement. This level of the space is more like a lab, with shelves of reagents and arcane instruments against the walls, and a large, carved wooden desk on the far side of the room. A sitting area off to one side is lit by a crackling hearth, the fireplace reaching up to the ceiling that has been enchanted to look like the night sky. Planets and stars dance above them, and Violet is mesmerized, standing where she is to look up and marvel. Beleron stands near the hearth, looking at her in mild annoyance. “Violet?”

“Forgive me, sir,” she says, moving to him with eyes still focused upward.

“Have a seat and make yourself comfortable.” Beleron sits in a plush high-back chair in front of the hearth, waving his hand as he does. What Violet had originally taken for a statue begins to move towards them, and she startles, hands raising in preparation to defend herself. It’s an arcane construct of some kind, and it lumbers past her without acknowledging her presence. The pointed pieces of gold that make up the thing’s shoulders only come up to her own shoulders, and it moves with eerie intelligence. “Don’t mind him.”

Violet looks over at the Archmage, who is going about pouring steaming liquid from a gilded teapot into two equally intricate teacups.

“He’s just going to tidy up before fetching our dinner.” Beleron looks up at her where she stands, still wary of the construct. “Please, sit.”

“Yes, sir,” Violet replies softly, sitting on the sofa directly across from his chair. “You’re certain the Queen won’t mind this?”

“Not to worry,” he says, smiling politely as he hands her one of the teacups perched atop a saucer. “I’m sure she’ll trust my judgment.”

“Forgive me for asking, sir,” Violet begins, blowing on her tea before taking a small sip. It’s good, and like nothing she’s ever tasted before, though there’s a hint of an aftertaste that she tries not to let show on her face. “But it seems odd to me that someone of your station wouldn’t be better suited back in Quel’Thalas.”

Beleron’s eyes narrow for a split second, then return to normal. He leans back in his chair, warming his hands around his cup.

“My people are scattered now. We find homes where we can.”

“Forgive me,” Violet says, taking another sip of tea and falling silent. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t. I’m quite used to humans and their curiosity by now.”

Violet nods to herself, staring into the fire. The flames flicker in the hearth, and she realizes they must be conjured and sustained by arcane means when she notices that while they burn bright, they don’t give off any smoke.

“Tell me about yourself,” Beleron says, breaking the silence. Violet blinks hard, his words seeming to come from far away. She looks up at him and the pattern in the brocade fabric of the chair behind him begins to shift and move before her eyes.

“I…” She begins, blinking hard again. “I’m from…Gilneas.”

“Are you unwell?” Beleron asks, setting down his untouched cup and getting to his feet.

“I feel faint,” Violet says, though her voice is barely above a breathy whisper. Her cup clatters from her grasp and she slumps sideways, head falling onto the throw pillow beside her. The room spins around her, and the last thing she sees is the warping form of the Archmage walking up to her.

“She’s out,” Beleron says, putting his fingers on the side of Violet’s neck to be sure she’s still breathing. Part of the wall behind him shifts and parts, and Sylvanas steps out from the secret passage and approaches them.

“The boy was right about something, it seems,” Sylvanas says, pushing Violet’s head to the side and watching it loll back to where it’d been. “He said she wasn’t born in Stormwind.”

“He did exactly what you asked of him,” Beleron says, almost sighing as he moves to kneel beside Violet where she’s lying fully unconscious. He lifts her eyelids one at a time, checking her dilated pupils before putting a hand on either side of her face. “It might take her some time to recover from this, even with the sedative easing the process.”

“Her recovery is of little import, Beleron. The boy got nearly nothing from her and I want to know what she’s still hiding.” Sylvanas sits on the coffee table, crossing one leg over the other and her arms over her chest. “Proceed.”

“As you wish,” Beleron says, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His hands begin to glow, and he’s soon far away from where he kneels, instead finding himself standing in a dreary, cloud-soaked landscape.

“Tell me everything you see,” Sylvanas’s voice commands, coming to him from very far in the distance. “Everything.”

Beleron nods, stepping fully into Violet’s mind to begin his search. Everything around him shifts from the landscape to a blur of colors, occasionally solidifying into brief glimpses into her memory.

_A small cottage where a copper-haired woman calls out to a young blonde girl who’s brushing a horse._

_The high, white walls of Lordaeron’s capital city and the chaos of a crowded marketplace._

_A stern woman in shiny plate armor, barking orders to the same girl, now a few years older._

_The redheaded woman from before, now pale and lying frailly in a bed._

_A dark forest under a full moon, and the girl covered in blood._

_The inside of a prison cell, and a man with round spectacles reading aloud from a book on the other side of the bars._

_A young man with dark hair, hand-in-hand with a blonde teenager as they cross under an archway marked with a great eye._

_Green countryside and a lake, small furry bodies clambering around a wrecked campsite._

_Endless running._

_A female night elf, teaching a young woman to strike with a shortsword._

_A manor house nestled high in the mountains, its banner bearing a raven with spread wings._

_Trolls, uttering war cries as they descend on two sleeping figures._

_A young elf falling to the ground with a cut bleeding on his forehead._

_The glaring crimson eyes of an undead queen._

A blinding golden light fills the space around Beleron, and a looming but tender presence pushes him roughly from Violet’s mind. He falls backwards, blinking hard as his office solidifies around him. He shakes his head, seeing Violet still unconscious before him on the couch.

“Well?” Sylvanas asks, and he looks up at her. Frowning, he shakes his head.

“She wasn’t lying,” he says, exhaling through his nose at her scowl. “She was never told about him.”

Sylvanas slams her fist on the table that serves as her seat, cracks forming in the wood on impact. A short cry of frustration leaves her dark lips, and she stands, pacing to the hearth to stare into the fire.

“I am sorry,” Beleron says, coming to stand beside her and putting an arm around her waist. “I had hoped to give you the answers you sought.”

“It’s just as well that she isn’t aware of who she is,” Sylvanas says, unblinking as she looks into the flames dancing before her. She casts a look back at the human, contempt plain on her fair features. “With any luck, I can break her and mold her into a weapon of my own.”

Violet groans, eyelids fluttering, though her body doesn’t move.

“What would you like me to do with her?” Beleron asks.

“Turn her loose when she’s awake enough to walk.”

“Of course.”

***

Compared to the heat and searing sun of Durotar, the Undercity is a dark, damp, unwelcome change of scenery for Tyri’el as the last remnants of his teleportation spell fade away. Though, it does feel good to finally return home - that is, as much as he can consider Tirisfal his home. He’s returned a few days before he thought he would, seeing as Grand Magister Rommath cut short his own visit to Orgrimmar for predictably vague reasons.

Around him, his bedroom is in chaos, the bed perpetually unmade and stacks of books covering every available surface, including the floor. His desk is its usual mountain of chaos, and he sets down his pack on the chair in front of it, pulling off his boots and trading them for a more comfortable pair of shoes. The headache that had been plaguing him since he arrived in Orgrimmar begins to fade, though it still throbs as he rubs his temples and leaves his room. The rest of his quarters is in equal disarray, also filled with books and papers, as well as various arcane equipment he’s never bothered to organize in any meaningful way. With a quick wave of his hands, he conjures a pitcher of water and pours himself a glass, draining it dry and storing the rest in the enchanted cold box in one corner of what serves as his living room. He nods to himself, seeing that everything is just as he left it, and leaves his quarters with the arcane lock sliding into place behind him.

It was mid-morning when he left Durotar a few minutes ago, so in Tirisfal it’s early evening. His stomach growls to remind him that he hasn’t had a proper meal in days, seeing as the orcs, while hospitable hosts, have not yet mastered the preparation of foods congenial to the delicate tastes of the elves. He’ll go see what Audrey has cooking soon enough, but his first task is to make his way to the infirmary to see how Violet fared in his absence. His hunger is pushed away by a sick feeling when he lets his mind wander to all the things that could have possibly happened to the human while he was away, and he begins to formulate his apology as he walks from the Magic Quarter to the Apothecarium.

Once he’s arrived at the infirmary, he steps inside, expecting to be met by the sight of the golden-haired human, but instead he finds the room nearly empty. One bed to the far side holds a sleeping tauren, but the rest of the beds, including the one Violet had occupied, are all vacant. Bridget stands before one of the apothecary tables, mixing herbs into a pot of boiling water. She doesn’t hear him enter and jumps when he calls her name.

“Light above, Tyri’el,” she says, hand on her heart as if it could still beat wildly. “You know my ears don’t work as well as they used to.”

“Apologies,” Tyri’el says, looking around the room again, as if he might have somehow overlooked Violet’s presence. “Where is Violet?”

“She left right after you did. The Dark Lady called for her, and she hasn’t been back since.”

“Do you know where she’s gone?” He asks, a bubble of panic rising into his chest.

“Can’t say for sure,” Bridget says, appraising his worry with a furrowed brow. “But unless everyone’s been whispering about some other human girl working down at the inn, I’d say you’d best look there.”

“The inn? Why is she—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Nevermind. Thank you, Bridget.”

“Mmhmm,” the Forsaken hums, turning back to her work. Tyri’el leaves the infirmary quickly, practically running towards the Trade Quarter. While Violet is no doubt healed enough for Father Lazarus to feel comfortable releasing her from his care, it still makes no sense to him that Sylvanas would appoint such a menial post to the human. Though, as he hurries up the many ramps leading to the upper reaches of the Quarter, he begins to realize that it makes a great deal of sense. Sylvanas means to degrade Violet further, and whatever Innkeeper Norman has for her to do is more than likely just what the Dark Lady had in mind.

“Excuse me,” he says, gaining the attention of the Forsaken behind the counter as he enters the inn. Norman looks up from his ledger, expression remaining that of a perpetual scowl.

“What can I do for you, Magister?”

“I was told I could find Violet here.” He frowns, seeing confusion bleed in the innkeeper’s expression, and clarifies. “The human.”

"Ah,” Norman says, nodding. He motions with his head to the door leading to the kitchen. “Down in the cellar. Went to dinner with your uncle and came back some kind of drunk.”

Tyri’el thanks him through a set jaw, moving to the kitchen and towards the stairs, fists clenched at his sides. The innkeeper hasn’t even bothered to learn Violet’s name, so he can only imagine how poorly she’s been treated since she arrived here. Then there’s the matter of his uncle inviting her to dinner. He doesn’t have time to ponder it further, hearing muffled sobs coming from somewhere in the darkness of the basement. With a few words, he summons a globe of light he holds in his fingertips and looks around the cellar for the source of the sounds. There’s a door on the far side and he approaches it quickly, finding the rest of the cellar empty save for some barrels of ale and stacks of chairs.

At first, Tyri’el thinks the closet empty as well, but he moves the globe into the small space and finds Violet huddled in one corner, shivering violently and sobbing into her knees where they’re pulled tight against her chest. He leaves the globe floating where it is, kneeling beside her and looking for any obvious signs of injury. She appears unharmed, but there’s a faint trace of arcane energy rising from her, one that immediately has him concerned.

“Violet?” he asks quietly, and when she doesn’t respond, he reaches out and gently touches her shoulder. She startles, immediately raising her hands before her with her posture shifting into a sloppy defensive position. She blinks hard, eyes glassy and heavy-lidded, and sniffs at the air before slumping back against the wall with her body still shivering and her cheeks still wet. Tyri’el removes his hand, though he keeps it close enough to her to confirm that there is some kind of arcane energy clinging to her.  He watches her for a moment before speaking in a soft, low tone. “What’s wrong?”

Violet doesn’t respond, her actions sluggish and disoriented, but her eyes strain against the light from the globe and focus on his face. She shakes her head, covering her ears with her hands and curling in on herself again.

“What happened?” Tyri’el asks, closing the door behind him and sinking down to sit on the earthen floor. Violet is silent, her body wracked with a violent wave of shivering. Her skin is cold to the touch when he hesitantly touches her hand, and he withdraws from her as a spark of arcane energy zaps at him like a static shock. He repeats his question, this time more insistently, and Violet raises her head to look at him.

“Your uncle…” She says, the short phrase slurred as she speaks it. “He…”

“He what?” Tyri’el asks, a flare of anger overcoming him. She’s quiet again, and Tyri’el shakes her gently. “What did he do to you, Violet?”

“He…” She begins, words falling away a she lifts a shaking hand to tap her temple. “Dug. Like a sandbox.”

For a moment, Tyri’el has no idea what she’s getting at, but he feels the swirl of arcane around her and sees the glaze over her eyes, and he finds his answer. Anyone without an affinity for arcane arts would react in much the same way if a sudden flux of energy was forced on them, and from her statement, there’s only one thing that his uncle could have possibly done to her to cause such a state. It’s not nearly as horrible as the images his mind had conjured only moments before, but it enrages him nonetheless.

“Wait here,” he says, standing and murmuring a phrase that teleports him across the city and into his quarters. He pulls every blanket from his bed with angry swipes, as well as the pillows, and teleports back to the closet. In a series of awkward shuffles, he lays down a blanket to cover the cold floor and moves Violet onto it, settling her in amongst the rest of the blankets. He places the pillows under her head and tucks the blankets around her, teleporting once more to retrieve the pitcher of water and a large mug that he places beside Violet when he appears next to her again. She doesn’t notice the commotion, allowing herself to be moved without any resistance, and she burrows into the blankets around her like a small animal in its den.

“He was…looking for…something,” she manages, words coming out soft and strained. “But…wouldn’t let…him…”

“Rest,” Tyri’el says, and Violet obeys, her shivering lessening as she gets warm. He spends a moment watching her to be sure she’s safe for the time being, and stands, extinguishing the globe and stepping out of the closet. With his middle and index fingers, he traces a rune into the door that shimmers and disappears into the wood like it never existed. Though the door is shoddily-made and hung crookedly, the spell will keep anyone from disturbing Violet until he returns. With that in place, he leaves the cellar and then the inn, making his way back to the Magic Quarter. He finds the enchanted doorway without any trouble, dispelling the illusion that makes it look like just another part of the city’s walls, and pulls open the door before slamming it behind him.

Inside, he takes the stairs two and three at a time until he reaches a long hallway, opening one of the doors towards the end to enter his uncle’s study. Books float around of their own accord, returning themselves to their shelves, and Tyri’el swats one out of the way as he moves towards the stairs at the opposite side of the round room. He can hear voices coming from the floor above, and he takes a deep breath to tamp down on the rage swirling inside of him. The voices stop as he reaches the top of the staircase, and he emerges into the office to find his uncle and Sylvanas sitting on the sofa in front of the hearth, having been deep in a conversation when he arrived.

“You’ve returned early,” Beleron says, quirking an eyebrow. “Did Rommath behave himself for the Warchief?”

“Don’t play coy, uncle,” Tyri’el says, a hot flush creeping across his skin. He feels faint for the briefest of moments but steadies himself. “What possible reason could you have for entering Violet’s mind like that?”

“You told me you sufficiently sedated her,” Sylvanas says, looking from Tyri’el to Beleron, who stands and approaches his nephew.

“I did,” Beleron tells her, and adds under his breath, “I thought.”

“Putting aside the fact that the Convocation expressly forbids unauthorized use of that kind of magic, you could have irreparably damaged her mind, uncle.” Tyri’el looks between the two of them, focus settling on Sylvanas. “What is it you are so desperately trying to uncover?”

“Watch your tone with me, boy,” Sylvanas says, rising from the sofa. “And it’s no business of yours what I do with my prisoners.”

“But it is,” Tyri’el says, taking an unconscious step forward. The Queen’s eyebrow twitches, and she, too, takes a step forward.

“Tyri’el,” Beleron cautions.

“I want to know what’s so special about her that you feel the need to violate her like this.” Tyri’el is shaking now, skin tingling with both warmth and electricity. Beleron raises his hands in a calming gesture, eyes widening, but Tyri’el cuts him off. “There have been plenty of Alliance prisoners brought into the city, and you’ve never taken as much of an interest in them as you have in her. What makes her any more important than the others?”

“You forget yourself, boy,” Sylvanas says, and the room darkens the tiniest bit. “And I could very well ask you the same question.”

“It’s my fault she’s at your mercy,” Tyri’el says, and the fire in the hearth snaps loudly and flares. “You ordered her as my charge and I won’t see her mind shattered for no good reason.”

“Tyri’el,” Beleron cautions again, and his nephew shoots him a hard look.

“How can you justify aiding her in this, uncle? It’s utterly…” Tyri’el searches for the right word, but nothing seems to fit the situation before him. “It’s _inhumane_.”

Sylvanas laughs, a ragged edge to the sound that grates against Tyri’el’s ears.

“Inhumane? I should hope so.” Sylvanas closes the gap between them, and Beleron draws closer, hands still held before him in a vain attempt to placate the two. “You speak as if humans have never wreaked havoc on our lives. As if our people, as if we personally, haven’t been the victims of human cruelty.”

“Not every human is Arthas,” Tyri’el spits, and a strange look overcomes the Queen and is so quickly gone that Tyri’el is sure he’d imagined it. “Not every human is to blame for our losses.”

“Someone has to pay for what’s been done,” Sylvanas says, a smile now spreading on her lips. “And I’ve chosen her.”

The two glare at each other, red eyes boring into green, and the light in the room shifts, as if the glow from the fire is warring with some inky blackness pressing in from the shadows it casts. Sylvanas waves her hand dismissively.

“See to it that the girl recovers,” she says, returning to her place by the hearth. “Show him out, Beleron.”

Beleron nods, taking Tyri’el’s arm gently but insistently.

“Sylvanas,” Tyri’el begins, his skin still flushed with anger, but Beleron tightens his hold, forcing his nephew to look at him. Tyri’el takes in a deep breath through his nose, pulling out of his uncle’s grasp and moving towards the stairs. He looks over his shoulder at the Queen. “This isn’t over. I won’t let you harm her again.”

Sylvanas snorts but says nothing, eyes fixed on the fire. Tyri’el stomps down the stairs, whirling around to face Beleron once they’re both on the lower level.

“You can’t be all right with this,” he says, words sharp but voice pleading. “You are not hateful as she is.”

“I am sorry,” Beleron says, shoulders sagging. There’s sadness behind his eyes, perhaps even a trace of guilt, and his voice breaks as he speaks. “I did not intend to harm her.”

“Tell me what’s going on, uncle,” Tyri’el says, fully pleading now. “I need to understand why she’s doing this.”

“There are some things you are better left without knowing,” Beleron replies, some heavy hidden meaning to his words that Tyri’el can’t grasp. “I will do my best to see that the girl isn’t handled so callously again. I promise you that.”

“ _Handled_?” Tyri’el asks incredulously. “As if she’s a tool, or an…an animal?”

“Go,” Beleron says, though the command is weak. “See to it that she’s all right.”

“Uncle—”

“Please,” Beleron says, now his turn to plead. Tyri’el begins to argue again, but the faraway look in his uncle's eyes quiets him for a moment.

“We have every reason to despise the humans for what they did to us,” he says quietly. “But what Sylvanas is making you do…what makes you any different from them now?”

The words strike true and Tyri’el can see the hurt in Beleron’s eyes, plainly displayed in a way that makes him look so much older than his millennia of age.

“Go,” Beleron repeats, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

Tyri’el shakes his head and leaves the study, slamming the door behind him.


	10. A City In Ruins

The first thing Violet notices when she begins to wake from a hard, dreamless sleep, is that every fiber of her being is crying out in protest. Her muscles ache and her head throbs, and even her shallow, calm breaths cause her pain and stir her stomach. Then, as her senses come back to her, she notices that the fabric surrounding her in a warm, snug cocoon is much too soft and smells too much of clean soap to possibly belong to her. She finally opens her eyes, peeking out into the almost-darkness of the closet.

 A single candle sits on one of the shelves above her, casting flickering light onto Tyri’el, whose long legs are scrunched up to allow him to sit next to her on the floor. His eyes are closed and his head is leaned back against the wall, and Violet thinks him asleep. It’s only when she tries to push herself up and her arms give out that he moves, opening his eyes with a start at her undignified grunt as she falls back into the pile of blankets around her.

 “Are you all right?” He asks, and Violet snorts. Her throat is raw and she coughs, head throbbing as she does.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” she says, using every ounce of strength within her to sit up and lean hard against the wall behind her. “Do I look all right?”

“No,” Tyri’el says, frowning. “But at the very least you’re coherent.”

“Coherent,” Violet scoffs, rubbing her temples to try to soothe her headache. “I’m more than coherent. I’m bloody pissed off.”

“You remember, then.”

“Remember what?” She asks, and his frown deepens. As soon as the words leave her mouth, an image flashes in her mind’s eye, overriding the dull fog that she awakened to find around her consciousness. It’s of Beleron, approaching her as her world turned sideways and then went black. Looking up at him with fear clear in her eyes, she asks the question she’s not sure she wants to learn the answer to. “What did he do to me?”

Violet draws the blankets up around her, her small frame swallowed by the mass of fabric. Tyri’el takes a deep breath and wets his lips before speaking.

“He forcefully entered your mind,” he says, feeling the dormant rage rear up like a snarling beast in his chest. “It’s why you’ve been in the midst of mana withdrawal most of the night.”

Violet begins to refute his claim, to tell him she hasn’t had the need for mana in years, but she remains quiet, each small motion of her body causing the space around her to spin.

“Mana can affect a person just as a powerful drug can, even one unused to using it,” Tyri’el continues, watching her closely as he did throughout the night. “And as such, it can lead to debilitating withdrawal.”

Tyri’el swallows hard, knowing full well what mana withdrawal can do to a person, and he shakes his head to clear away the thought and the memories it drags with it.

“Did he find what he was looking for?” Violet asks, seeing the change in Tyri’el but not acknowledging it.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he says, shoulders sagging while his fists clench in the same moment. “Neither he nor Sylvanas will tell me their motives.”

“I should have known she had something to do with it,” Violet says, and her gaze hardens. “She must have found you to be a poor spy.”

Tyri’el nods and hangs his head, but says nothing.

“I read her message to you.”

“I hoped you would find it,” Tyri’el admits, eyes fixed on his hands where they rest in his lap. “I couldn’t just tell you. Not with her banshees ever-present.”

“You lied to me,” Violet says, voice low and her upper lip curling to expose her teeth.

“No,” he says on an exhale, and drags his eyes to meet hers. “But I was dishonest with you. For that, I am sorry.”

Violet scoffs, coughing from her still-raw throat. Tyri’el offers her a mug of water, and she eyes it with suspicion. He sighs, talking a drink of it and offering it to her again. She takes it, sniffing it suspiciously, and downs it in one go. It tastes strange, and she realizes it must be conjured from the way it tingles on her tongue.

“So you’re here because you feel guilty?”

“Yes,” Tyri’el responds, taking the empty mug from her and refilling it before handing it back to her. “Drink. You’ll need to stay hydrated.”

Violet obeys, though she makes sure to glare at him as she does. He does look the part of a guilty accomplice, and that only fuels her anger.

“I thought I could trust you,” she begins, squeezing the mug held in her hands. “Of all the people in this Light-forsaken place, I took you for someone who—”

“I didn’t think she’d do… _that_ ,” Tyri’el says, gesturing at her as he cuts her off with a hard edge to his voice. He seems taken aback at his own brashness, and his face falls. “I did as I was told.”

“And that absolves you?” Violet throws the mug at the opposite wall, shattering it into a spray of shrapnel. “You damned me into this hell. I’d kill you right now if I had the strength.”

Tyri’el absolutely believes her, and draws back instinctively at the feral look in her eyes. The outburst saps at Violet’s already meager energy, and her strength fails her. She falls back against the wall, closing her eyes with her hand finding her necklace. Seeing the fight leave her, Tyri’el relaxes somewhat, searching desperately for a way to explain himself.

“Please believe me when I say I’m ashamed of what I’ve done.”

Violet laughs shortly, eyes still closed.

“I don’t care,” she says, a bitter, indignant mirth in her voice. “I won’t believe another word you say.”

“You’ve every right to think me a liar,” Tyri’el says softly, frowning as he absentmindedly fidgets with a loose string on the hem of his shirt. “Nothing I can say will erase what’s already been done, but if there’s something I can do…”

He trails off, sighing at the futility of his own words. They sit in silence for a few moments before Violet voices her thoughts.

“I want to see the city.”

Tyri’el looks over at her in confusion.

“You’ve seen most of the Undercity alr—”

“Not the Undercity,” she says, meeting his eyes. “I want to go above ground.”

Tyri’el holds her gaze, considering his options. Sylvanas will surely be furious with him if he brings her up to the ruins, but with banshees following them invisibly at every turn, at the very least he hopes the Queen will know he’s not trying to help the human escape.

“You’re sure?” He asks finally. “It won’t be as you remember.”

“I need to see what that bastard did to my city.”

“Very well,” Tyri’el says, pushing himself to his feet. He offers Violet his hand, and she takes it, allowing him to pull her up. She sways, but the dizziness fades quickly, and she nods at him. He nods in return, eyes sparking with energy as he casts a teleportation spell. In the next moment, they’re standing in the cool air of the early morning. The sun is just starting to rise, beautiful shades of oranges and reds lighting up the sky over the eastern edge of the city. Violet looks around, drawing her arms around her and clutching her necklace as tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “If I recall correctly, this used to be—”

“Market Square,” Violet says, pale eyes roving the ruins all around them. In the reddish light of the coming sunrise, the broken buildings seem awash in blood, their crumbling walls and caved-in roofs covered in unnatural fog. The walls of the capital city were always so bright - perhaps not as bright as the white walls of Stormwind, but to someone so used to the dismal colors of Gilneas, they were a sight to behold all the same. Now they’re dark and ashen, covered in years of neglect and void of their former glory.

Violet turns, taking in what she remembers to be a lively, bustling marketplace. The center fountain she’d thrown coppers into in exchange for wishes is now dry and covered in sickly lichen, and the streetlights are all broken, some bent and twisted like the branches of a dead tree. No shopkeepers call to passersby, and no citizens mill about in the now barren streets. Instead, everywhere Violet looks, she can sense eyes on her, though the physical bodies of their owners have long since left this world. Dark shapes flit about in the shadows cast by the rising sun, hiding from the rays of light breaking over the city.

A prayer falls from her lips, one in the tongue of Old Arathor, meant to call the Light’s protection from dark forces, though the words seems hollow and useless in such a cursed place. Tyri’el stands beside her, having seen the ruins many times, but never as someone who’d called the city home. He, too, can sense the former citizens all around them, but his years within the Undercity have dulled his fears of vengeful ghosts. Still, he’s uneasy as Violet moves towards what used to be a shop of some kind.

“This was the bookstore,” she says, looking up at the dilapidated building, its roof caved in and its front window smashed. She moves down the street, Tyri’el following as he watches the shadows for anything dead that might wish to harm the living intruding on its former domain. “And this…this was the bakery. An old man from Westfall owned it. He would give me a fruit pie if I swept the stoop for him.”

Violet loses herself in her memories, silent tears streaming down her face as she travels through the streets she once knew by heart. It’s a shell of her former city, buried under the weight of betrayal and death. She’s soon running, unable to keep in one place too long, and she can feel the hatred and misery seeping up from under every brick, peering out from abandoned homes. Fog hangs thick around her, barely chased away by the coming dawn.

Her grief turns sharply to anger when she finds herself standing before the shattered remains of a cathedral. The stained glass windows, once lit up in a myriad of colors by the light of the sunrise, are now broken, shards of glass crunching under her feet as she ascends the steps. The grand doors are barred, and she tries futilely to tear away the boards with shaking hands. She slams her fist on the door, the sound echoing inside the desecrated building and the stale air around it.

“Damn him,” she says, gritting her teeth. “Not even this sacred space was spared his malice.”

Violet leans her forehead on the door, closing her eyes.

“I was always late. No matter how early I woke, I never made it to mass on time.” She sniffs. “Uther would lecture me, but I never listened. I took him for granted. I took it all for granted.”

“Uther the Lightbringer?” Tyri’el asks, having barely caught her whispered words as he finally catches up to her on the ruined steps. “You knew him?”

Violet nods, straightening up when the door scrapes at her forehead. She places her palm on the warped wood, looking up at the steeple that had always seemed so much taller than it does now. Before Tyri’el can question her further, she moves again, circling around the cathedral to an archway off the back of the massive structure.

“These were the dormitories,” she says, passing under the arch. Beyond is an open space, perhaps a courtyard of some kind, framed by several long buildings now falling to pieces. Tattered banners line the walls, some bearing the blue-on-white crest of Lordaeron, others displaying the clenched fist of the Silver Hand. The remains of training dummies line one side, and what would have been weapon racks line another, now barren of swords and shields. Violet bends, picking up the rusted hilt of a sword only large enough to be used by a child. “And the training grounds.”

As she circles the courtyard, she lets the broken hilt fall from her fingers and break against the worn flagstone, the sound ringing out hollow and dull. Tyri’el can only watch her as she moves, unsure of what he might say to comfort her. Fingers barely brushing against the stone of the building, she stops short when she comes to a collapsed doorway.

“This led to my room,” Violet says, turning to look back at the cathedral. “I could see the steeple bells ringing from my window.”

“You were a student here?” Tyri’el asks, coming to stand near her. Violet nods, eyes fixed on the banner of the Silver Hand, on the crest she once proudly wore.

“That was a long time ago. Lifetimes.” She hugs her arms around her, suppressing a shiver. “I was different then.”

Tyri’el nods, unable to grasp whatever deeper meaning there might be to her words. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and though he can’t see anything amiss as he looks around, he knows a banshee is hiding somewhere nearby. He startles when Violet kicks a piece of rubble, sending it clear across the courtyard to hit the wall of the cathedral and break into small pieces. Her hands fall to her sides and fist in the thin fabric of her dress as she clenches her jaw.

“He was a paladin. A man of the Light,” she says, her body shaking. “He said his prayers in this church. And now…”

Violet covers her mouth with her hand, barely able to stand the sight of the ruined buildings around her.

“Arthas,” Tyri’el says, immediately regretting speaking when Violet’s eyes flick up to him.

“Don’t even speak his name,” she says. “I lost everything to that traitorous bastard. My home, my future, my…”

Violet swallows hard, grasping at her necklace so hard her knuckles turn white.

“My family.”

“We have that much in common, at least,” Tyri’el says, face falling as he speaks. Violet nods, a silent understanding passing between them.

“I’ve seen enough,” she says a few moments later, closing her eyes. “Take me back to my prison.”

“There is one last thing I think you’ll want to see,” Tyri’el says, gesturing for her to follow him. Violet looks up at him, blinking to shed the tears clouding her vision, and pads after him. They travel back the way they came, heading for the broken towers of the keep, though Violet doesn’t need to look up from where her eyes are fixed on the ground to know that’s where they’re going. That, too, used to be a beautiful place. Queen Lianne’s gardens were renowned across the Seven Kingdoms, second only to the ever-blooming city of Dalaran to the south. Now the once verdant grounds are twisted and overgrown, covered in thorny vines and emaciated weeds. They enter into the courtyard before the keep, its once magnificent architecture crumbling and dying like everything else. The canals are filled with putrid green slime, and rats and giant cockroaches scurry around their feet. Violet stops, taking in the whole of the space.

“The Wicker Man stood here,” she says, and Tyri’el turns. “We’d come to watch it lit the first sundown of Hallow’s End.”

“The Forsaken still honor that tradition,” Tyri’el says, and for a moment, Violet’s eyes brighten. The mirth is quickly snuffed out, her expression turning sour when she thinks of her fond memories now invaded by the undead. She shakes her head, moving away from the spot.

“What is it you want to show me?” She asks, and he gestures with his head towards the keep. “I have seen the throne many times before.”

“Not the throne,” Tyri’el replies, and begins to walk across the drawbridge. Violet follows, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands as she does. The throne room looks much the same as she remembers it, though the throne now sits empty of Lordaeron’s beloved king. Some of the banners still hang along the walls, but dirt and mold have sullied the crest they bear. Tyri’el moves past the throne to one of the doorways on either side, turning back when he senses Violet no longer following him. “Violet?”

She holds up her hand to silence him, turning her head back and forth to catch the whispers echoing all around her. Two voices, their words muffled but urgent, swirl through the throne room, and a cold breeze blows through the chamber, rustling the banners and kicking up plumes of dust. As soon as they’d set in, the voices cease, leaving the silence hanging heavy in the air. Violet shivers, casting one last look around the room before quickly following Tyri’el into the chamber beyond. A soft gasp escapes her when she sets eyes on what the room before her holds.

A stone sarcophagus sits in the center of the room, intricately carved from fine marble. Candles cover it, kept lit by some magical  means, and the glow they cast sends flickering shadows across an engraved plaque set into the memorial’s base. Violet approaches slowly, coming just close enough to read the words softly to herself.

_Here lies King Terenas Menethil II -- Last True King of Lordaeron._  
_Great were his deeds -- long was his reign -- unthinkable was his death._  
_May the Father lie blameless for the deeds of the son._  
_May the bloodied crown stay lost and forgotten._

“Light above,” she says under her breath. “I had no idea this was here.”

“Many of the Forsaken were citizens here in life, as well,” Tyri’el says, coming closer but keeping a polite distance.  “They built this in his honor.”

“Terenas was a great king,” Violet says, running her fingertips across the polished stone. “He did not deserve an end such as he suffered.”

She grasps at her necklace, pulling back her hand like the stone had shocked her, and takes a few steps back before hurrying from the room. Tyri’el follows her, traveling through the throne room and out into the courtyard once more. He finds her leaning against a wall, shoulders shaking with sobs.

“I should not have asked to see this place,” she says when she senses him nearing her. “It’s so much worse than I could have ever imagined.”

“Perhaps I should not have indulged you,” he offers, and she shakes her head, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

“No, I am grateful you did as I asked. I was…” She trails off, looking around. “I was not ready for my memories to be tarnished like this.”

“For what it’s worth,” Tyri’el begins, stepping closer with eyes softening as he speaks, “I am sorry for what you’ve lost, whatever it may have been.”

“As am I,” Violet replies. “I suppose I forgot that I am not the only one who lost so very much to the Scourge.”

Tyri’el nods, another silent understanding passing between them. The sun continues to rise around them, the sky lightening as much as it can in Tirisfal, and in the warm golden rays of dawn, the ruins around them look less imposing. Still, it’s a bitter sight to Violet, to see beauty clashing with her sorrow. She begins to ask to be taken below ground once more when something catches her eye across the courtyard.

It’s only a flash of a figure, not quite incorporeal, but invisible to the untrained eye. She sniffs at the air, tensing as she does, and holds her finger to her lips when she sees that Tyri’el is about to speak. He quirks an eyebrow, looking around and seeing nothing, but when he returns his gaze to Violet, he finds himself standing alone in the courtyard.

Panicking, he whirls around, seeing no sign of the human. He searches futilely around columns and piles of debris, as if she’d simply hidden behind something, but his frantic search turns up nothing. Just as he’s about to call out her name, a hand comes over his mouth to silence him.

“Stay silent,” Violet whispers in his ear from behind him, and he startles, sure she hadn’t been standing there only a moment before. “There’s a human rogue slinking around the city.”

“How can you possib—”

“He wore a tabard. White with a red flame.”

Tyri’el’s blood runs cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The language of Old Arathor that Violet says a prayer in is essentially the WoW version of Latin (in my universe, that is.)
> 
> Also, fun fact, if you go into the throne room in the Ruins of Lordaeron in-game and turn up your volume, eventually you'll hear Arthas and Terenas's conversation from Warcraft III. The part from the cutscene - "What are you doing, my son?" "Succeeding you, father."
> 
> That's also the inscription on Terenas's memorial if you right-click on the plaque.


	11. Mercy in Death

“Did he see us?” Tyri’el asks as Violet releases her hold on him. She snorts.

 “He saw you.”

“That’s the insignia of the Scarlet Crusade,” Tyri’el whispers, looking around the courtyard.

“And that’s bad?” Violet asks, bending to pick up a fist-sized chunk of rubble and tossing it in her hand a few times to test its weight.

“They were once servants of the Light,” Tyri’el explains, keeping a spell on the tip of his tongue. “Since the plague struck, they’ve turned zealous and become hellbent on eradicating the Scourge.”

Violet quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t see that as a bad thing.”

“They make no distinction between the Lich King’s mindless servants and the freed Forsaken.” Tyri’el looks at the ruined keep, then back to her. “I’d bet anything he’s headed for the Queen.”

Violet’s expression hardens, her grip tightening on the stone in her hand.

“If anyone’s bringing that witch down, it’s going to be me.” She turns back to the place she’d last seen the rogue, turning her head back and forth to catch any sounds from the ruins around them. Looking down at her dress, she sighs. “I’m not exactly dressed for tracking.”

“What are you planning on doing?” Tyri’el asks, and Violet grins, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“I’m going to catch me a rogue.” In the next instant she’s gone, completely disappearing into thin air before his eyes. He blinks, wondering briefly if she’d hit him with the rock and he’s now hallucinating, but he then realizes that the reason she’d been able to spot the rogue is because she’s one, too. Thinking back to the night they’d met, he can’t believe he didn’t realize it sooner based on what he’d seen of her fighting style. Though, he had been quite preoccupied at that point.

Cursing under his breath, Tyri’el casts a spell over himself, and within seconds, he too, is invisible. The world around him shimmers and shifts, but offers him no hints as to where Violet has run off to. She could have been lying as a way to facilitate an escape, he realizes, and for his own sake, he hopes that’s not what’s just happened. The sounds of a struggle meet his ears, and through the muffled haze of his spell, he picks up the direction of the sounds and races farther into the ruins.

Rounding a corner into what must have been an alley of some kind in the former city, Tyri’el finds Violet engaged in hand-to-hand combat with another human. They move quickly around each other, trading blows with graceful efficiency. The newcomer has the advantage of wielding two daggers, but Violet is much faster, dodging his strikes despite the awkward mobility of fighting in a dress. She moves with almost animalistic fluidity, finally overpowering him and forcing his weapons from his hands. In a flash, she’s flipped him onto his back, her knee to his groin and a short blade pressed to his throat. Kneeling over him, she smirks in satisfaction as she catches her breath.

_“You can come out, Tyri’el,”_ she says in Darnassian, not looking up at him where he stands, still shrouded by his spell. _“I can hear you hyperventilating.”_

Fading into sight as he dismisses his spell, Tyri’el approaches them cautiously. Violet pulls down the man’s face mask, revealing a youth no older than she is, and he struggles underneath her to no avail.

_“_ _What should we do with you, hm?”_ She asks the man, looking him up and down like a predator might assess its prey. He clearly doesn’t understand what she’s saying, his eyes wide and his face flushed.

“What did you hope to accomplish by coming here?” Tyri’el asks as he approaches them, and the man startles, having not realized the elf was there.

“You’ll get nothing from me, elf,” he says, his accent placing him as born and raised in Lordaeron. “The Light will protect me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Violet asks, dragging the tip of her knife along his lower lip without breaking the skin. “Last I knew, the Light frowns on subterfuge, and certainly doesn’t protect those intent on assassination.”

“It would be a righteous killing,” the man says, his conviction clear in his words. “Death to the Scourge!”

“Does your mother know you’re out playing Crusader?” Violet asks him, reminding Tyri’el of a lynx toying with a wounded rabbit before devouring it.

“You’re a traitor to humanity,” the man spits, but Violet seems wholly unaffected by his accusation. “You’re working for her, aren’t you? For the Banshee Queen.”

“Smart boy,” she purrs, a sadistic grin spreading on her fair features. Her eyes flash with ill intent as she speaks. “Now, you can answer his question, or you can answer to Sylvanas. Your choice.”

“I am not afraid to die.”

“Oh, I hoped you’d say that,” Violet says, and Tyri’el shivers instinctively at the predatory edge to her voice. She fists her hand in the front of his tunic, standing and hauling him upright with one arm until his eyes are level with hers. “Last chance.”

“I…I was sent to…”

“Speak up.”

“To g-gather intel on…on the layout of the c-city.”

“Why?” Tyri’el asks, approaching them. Violet glances over at him, something behind her eyes making him stop dead in his tracks.

“Commander Mograine wishes to retake Brill before launching an attack on the Undercity.” The young man swallows hard, his dark eyes wide. “He sent me to s-scout the city’s inner defenses.”

“Are you working alone?” Violet asks, using her free hand to search his clothes. She pulls a folded piece of parchment from beneath his tabard and tosses it to Tyri’el, who barely manages to catch it. He unfolds it, scanning the note. The young man shakes his head.

“One of you. One of the Scourge in the city has been feeding the High Inquisitor information for months.”

“A name, boy,” she growls, forcing him against the wall, his feet dangling but not touching the ground.

“I-I don’t know his real name. I was supposed to meet him here this morning.” He gasps for air, but Violet’s grip never falters. “Please don’t kill me.”

“What does it say?” Violet asks, looking to Tyri’el.

“It looks like a requisition for supplies. Food and ammunition, mostly. Signed S.W.”

“High Inquisitor Whitemane.” The young man says. “He’s been diverting s-supplies to the Monastery for her.”

“We need to take him to Sylvanas,” Tyri’el says, folding the parchment and slipping it into his pocket.

“Please don’t kill me,” the young man repeats, and Violet closes her eyes, taking in a breath through her nose. “I don’t want to die.”

“The Light looks kindly on martyrs,” she says, opening her eyes. “May it save and keep your soul.”

Before Tyri’el can protest, Violet snaps the man’s neck, lowering his limp body gently to the ground and closing his eyes from where they’re still frozen wide in fear. She whispers a prayer as she kneels over him, standing slowly after returning her knife to her boot.

“We needed him alive,” Tyri’el says, fighting the sickness rising in his stomach after watching her brutal execution. “Sylvanas—”

“Sylvanas would have tortured him. Light only knows the pain she would inflict.” Violet looks down at the young man’s body. “His death was a mercy.”

Tyri’el is speechless, finding he has no words to refute her statement. Violet looks up suddenly, and in the next second, a banshee materializes next to her.

“The Queen demands your presence, human,” she says, gaunt face twisted in a look of disgust. “She bids you bring the body to her, as well.”

Violet nods stiffly, and the banshee disappears without acknowledging Tyri’el.

“She isn’t able to raise new Forsaken, is she?” Violet asks him, and he shakes his head, still speechless. She looks relieved. “Good. He deserves the peace of death.”

Tyri’el approaches her as she effortlessly hoists the man’s body into her arms, and mumbles the few words needed for teleportation. After a moment of disorienting pressure, they’re standing in the throne room, under the watchful gaze of the Queen. Tyri’el stumbles, still feeling ill from what he’s just witnessed. He leans against the wall, barely keeping his stomach from emptying itself.

“Bring it here,” Sylvanas commands, and Violet obeys, ascending to the throne. An elven woman clad in dark leather appears from the shadows and reaches for the body. Violet takes a step back, brow furrowing.

“What will you do with him?” She asks, looking at the Queen.

“Search, and then burn. He’s of no use to me now.” Sylvanas’s eyes narrow as she speaks. “You continue to find new ways to vex me, girl.”

Hesitantly, Violet lets the elf take the body from her, watching them until they slip back into the shadows and are gone.

“Full of surprises, aren’t you, little human?” It’s the dreadlord that speaks, and its voice sends a sick shiver down Violet’s spine. It grins at her, and she swallows the coil of fear that snakes its way around her throat, steeling her gaze as she looks back to the Queen.

“I told you I’d be of better use to you as something besides a scullery maid.” Violet says, and Sylvanas smirks.

“So it would seem.” Sylvanas’s eyes find Tyri’el where he’s still leaning against the wall. “Take a seat, boy, before you faint.”

Nodding, Tyri’el slides down to the floor, head held in his hands. Violet frowns, feeling guilty that she hadn’t stopped to consider that he might not be as used to ending lives as she is. Sylvanas shakes her head at him, turning her attention back to the human.

“A rogue, then,” she says, looking Violet up and down as she speaks.

“Yes, my lady,” Violet replies, standing tall despite her skin still crawling from the dreadlord’s comment.

“Self-taught?”

“No, my lady.”

“You’re not smug enough to suggest the ranks of SI:7.” Sylvanas walks in a full circle around Violet. “Defias?”

Violet snorts.

“No, my lady.”

“That leaves only one possibility.” Reaching out and grabbing Violet’s left arm, Sylvanas forces up her dress sleeve until the underside of her inner arm is visible. A small tattoo sits there, a raven in flight, inked in dark purple against her peachy skin. “An agent of Ravenholdt. I dare say I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Violet says, resisting the urge to pull herself free from the Queen’s tight grasp.

“You may prove useful to me yet, girl,” Sylvanas says, dropping Violet’s arm and gesturing with her head to follow her. They leave the throne room, Violet casting a wary glance back at Tyri’el where he sits on the far side of the room, silent and still, and travel through a hidden door to what Violet assumes is the Queen’s study. The door shuts behind them of its own accord, and Sylvanas turns to face Violet. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“My lady?” Violet asks, dread creeping over her at the scheming look in the elf’s glowing eyes.

“Seeing as you’ve already felled one member of the Scarlet Crusade today, I have just the task for you to prove yourself to me.” Sylvanas circles her again, very nearly grinning with sinister delight. “What do you know of the Crusade?”

“Little, my lady. Only that they seek to end you and your Forsaken.”

“An honor you’d rather claim yourself, I hear.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Sylvanas’s grin widens, showing unnaturally sharp teeth behind her dark lips.

“They’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side since I’ve been here, and I would see them on their knees.”

“With all due respect, my lady, I doubt even I could singlehandedly bring down an entire army.”

“You needn’t slay them all to bring them to an end,” Sylvanas says, moving to the desk at the far side of the room. She opens a drawer and pulls out a folder, flipping through it as she returns to Violet. One page catches her eye and she removes it, holding it out for Violet to take. “Strike at the heart and the limbs will wither and die.”

Violet takes the parchment, finding it filled with the portrait of a woman with silver hair and eyes nearly as red as the Queen’s. Under the portrait is a name, scrawled in sloppy Common.

“High Inquisitor Whitemane?”

Sylvanas nods.

“I was going to send in a group of adventurers to deal with her and her rabble, but I believe this will be the perfect opportunity to put your skills to the test.” Sylvanas grabs Violet’s face, forcing her to look at her. “And to prove your loyalty to me.”

“I live only to serve you, my lady,” Violet says, her voice void of sarcasm, but Sylvanas’s eyebrow twitches in indignation nonetheless. She speaks again when the Queen releases her. “What do you command of me?”

“In the mountains to the north lies a monastery. It was once a seat of learning for the Silver Hand and the Church of the Holy Light.”

“I’m familiar with it, my lady.”

“Indeed,” Sylvanas says, corners of her mouth turning down before she continues. “Whitemane rules over the enclave of zealots, and her death would deal a blow from which they will likely never recover.”

“You wish me to kill her?”

“With her gone, the Crusade will devolve into chaos and make easy work for adventurers to drive them from Tirisfal for good.”

“What about the traitor within your ranks?”

Sylvanas scowls, snatching the portrait from Violet and returning it to the folder.

“Discover his identity if you can. I suspect he’ll be the one to deliver the news of the spy’s untimely death to Whitemane.”

“You said you would make me a deal, my lady. What’s mine to gain from this?”

The Queen’s scowl turns into a knowing smirk.

“Succeed, and you’ll no longer be a slave, but an agent of the Forsaken, with all the freedoms afforded by that title. Fail, and you’ll—”

“I won’t fail, my lady.”

“I should hope not.” Sylvanas returns to her desk, stowing away the folder and taking out a small metal object. “You’ve not yet earned my trust, however.”

The Queen approaches Violet, taking her hand and turning it to bare her wrist. She presses the object to the skin there and Violet hisses as it burns her. When Sylvanas removes the object, a glowing imprint shimmers on her skin and disappears, but not before Violet catches sight of an arcane rune.

“You belong to me, and I always know where my pets are. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, my lady,” Violet replies, and Sylvanas drops her hand. Rubbing the still-stinging skin, Violet looks up at the Queen. “When do I depart?”

“Presently. It’s a half day’s journey on horseback, and you should reach the foothills of the Monastery by dark. One of my Dark Rangers will meet you there.” Sylvanas looks her up and down. “You’ll need to visit the provisioner. You can’t very well infiltrate the enclave dressed like that.”

“Nor can I assassinate without proper weapons.”

“You took care of the spy easily enough,” Sylvanas says, eyeing her with a hint of suspicion. “You’re much stronger than I gave you credit for.”

“My profession demands it,” Violet says, rubbing at her wrist again. A banshee appears beside her, and she jumps at the close proximity.

“Indeed.” Sylvanas nods to the banshee. “Take her to the provisioner.”

“As you command, my queen,” the banshee says, bowing.

“Tell no one of your mission. A horse will be waiting for you outside the western entrance to the city.” Locking eyes with Violet, Sylvanas’s profile seems to darken. “Do not fail me, Violet.”

“I won’t.”

With that, Sylvanas waves her away, and the banshee bids Violet to follow her. They leave the office, traveling back to the throne room, where they find Beleron helping Tyri’el to his feet. The elder elf eyes her warily as they pass, and Tyri’el looks to her in question, but she simply shakes her head and continues out of the throne room. Guilt still gnaws at her, and she vows to speak with him when she returns.

The visit to the provisioner is short and to the point, and Violet is soon clad in pitch black leather armor with a black cloak across her shoulders and a dark scarf covering her hair. Two brand new short swords hang from her belt, and a cloth mask hangs from her neck, ready to be pulled up at a moment’s notice to cover her face. She’s given a small pack with some food, as well as a waterskin, and with a short grunt, the provisioner declares her ready to depart. She thanks the Forsaken man, asking him how to find the city’s western entrance. He holds back a chuckle and tells her to follow the curve of the city to the north and take the stairs on the left.

He does not, however, mention that the western entrance is at the very end of the city’s sewer system. Violet slogs through slime nearly up to her knees, hand over her mouth to stifle her gagging, for at least half a mile until cool air meets her skin and clear sky is visible at the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Tirisfal is still covered in a bank of fog, but the morning sun pierces it enough that the land doesn’t look quite as haunted as is does under the cover of night. A skeletal horse, one like what she recalls Tyri’el had been riding when he’d been ambushed, waits beside the entrance, whinnying as she approaches. She checks the location of the sun, orientating herself as she mounts the undead beast and steers it north.

It feels good to breathe clean air again, though the whole of the countryside is covered by a lingering staleness, like a room shut away from sunlight for too long. The forest she rides through is near enough to what she remembers, though just off enough that her chest aches as she mourns her former home. More than once, she catches movement in her peripheral vision, but it’s gone so quickly that she can’t tell what she saw, though she knows it’s sentient and definitely following her.

The skeletal horse never tires, and doesn’t need breaks to find water, so Violet makes what she assumes to be good time. The sun is just beginning to set when the forest around her clears and she finds herself looking at the foothills of a small cluster of mountains. A single spire rises from the mountains, stark white against the dull browns and greens of the surrounding land, and she knows she’s reached the Monastery.

“You made it here unscathed, human. No small feat.” A melodic but rasping voice comes from the trees, and the elf who’d taken the rogue’s body from her emerges from the foliage. Violet dismounts, pulling down her face cover as she approaches the Dark Ranger.

“I presume you’ll not be going in with me,” she says, and the elf laughs shortly.

“No. This test is yours alone. I will wait for you here.”

“What for?”

“Once the High Inquisitor is dead, I anticipate the need for a swift retreat to the Undercity. One much faster than could be hoped for from a horse.”

“Very well,” Violet says, nodding at her and pulling her scarf up over her nose and mouth once more. She looks up into the hills, taking a deep breath of the chilled air filled with the scent of pines and damp earth. “Until we meet again.”

“Dark Lady watch over you,” the elf says, melting back into the shadows of the forest.

“Light protect me,” Violet whispers to herself, and disappears into the failing light of the sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  ~~The elf breathes so loud she could have shot him in the dark.~~   
> 


	12. The Monastery

The mountains are fully enveloped in darkness by the time Violet scales the rocky hills and arrives at the monastery itself. She’s seen only a few members of the Scarlet Crusade so far, and they’ve been none the wiser to her presence as she slinks through the shadows of the thinning forest. All-black clothing is good for hiding amongst foliage, but significantly less so for scaling walls of white stone, so she stays in the trees and circles the perimeter for an ideal spot to slip inside the grounds.

Though she was young enough when she first came here to think the soaring steeples were a million feet tall, the architecture of the place still gives her a moment’s pause in its splendor. The Scarlet Crusade has kept the place well, everything still as pristine and expertly-groomed as she recalls, but there’s something off about the place as she sees more and more of it. There’s something in the air, something more than the faint hum of the Light, and it makes her uneasy.

Around the back sits the graveyard, and Violet deems it a good place to gain entry to the grounds, seeing as it’s likely to be empty this time of evening. Mourning is best done in daytime under the watchful eyes of the Light, she was taught, and if these followers have truly turned zealous, they’ll obey that rule to the letter. There are no sounds coming from the other side of the wall as she slips closer, invisible to the untrained eye, and if her sense of time is correct, the whole of the congregation should be in the midst of evening mass. Using the toes of her boots to wedge her feet in between the lines in the masonry, she quickly scales the twenty foot wall, sitting completely still once she’s reached the top. The space before her is empty as she’d thought, and the soft sounds of music float on the breeze, many voices raised together in a hymn that is achingly familiar. Until now, she hadn’t realized how much she missed places like these - bright and full of followers of the Light, those who devote their lives to its service. Those that are what she should have been.

Biting back the bitter taste of her own thought, Violet jumps down from the wall, her boots making no sound as they touch the earth. That feeling of unease that had plagued her since setting eyes on the place grows now, and she freezes in place, scanning the darkness when she feels she isn’t alone. Shuffling footsteps meet her ears, and she dashes forward, crouching behind a tombstone and peering up over the edge. At first, all that’s visible through the darkness is a shape, and then it becomes clearer as it approaches, finally revealing the ethereal yellow glowing of they eyes of a Forsaken man.

It’s the provisioner, Violet realizes, watching the man she’d met earlier that day scoot past, gaze shifting all over the graveyard as he makes his way towards what Violet remembers to be the stables. This must be the traitor, she surmises, seeing as any member of the Scarlet Crusade would surely cut down any Forsaken in sight had they not been formerly aware of his purpose. Something akin to rage overcomes her, hands gripping the cold stone in front of her. Traitors are another thing she was taught about - the Light shows no mercy to those who turn from their brothers and sisters in favor of their own gain. The irony of her current situation hits her a half-second later, and she can’t help but grimace under her face mask. Surely the Light will understand that her hands are now forced by something wholly disgraced by it.

A door on the far side of the graveyard opens and a young woman steps out, laying eyes on the Forsaken as he hurries towards her. The disgusted curl of her lip is clear, even from Violet’s vantage point, and her voice is low and curt as she greets him.

“You’re late,” she says, scowl growing. “Mass is nearly finished. You know what they’ll do to you if they catch you sneaking about the grounds.”

“I’m aware, young lady,” the Forsaken says, returning her scowl. “There were…unforeseen circumstances that interfered with my punctuality.”

“Oh? Do the dead not remember how to read a clock face?” The young woman, a girl, really, gestures for him to enter and closes the door after he’s shuffled past her. Once she hears the lock clicking into place, Violet moves from her hiding place, sprinting across the graveyard to the opposite wall. Scaling it easily, she jumps onto the nearby slant of roof and follows the turns of the building. It’s a good bet that the Forsaken will be headed to speak with the High Inquisitor, who will have no doubt taken the former High Priest’s chambers as her own. A tower looms ahead of her, one of the windows flickering with the light of a fireplace from within, and Violet crouches low to the roof and makes her way towards it.

In the courtyard below, the great doors of the cathedral swing open, and a flood of people pour out into the night, marking the end of evening mass. All human, she notes, and all bearing the same symbol on their clothing as the rogue had worn - white with a blood red flame. Some head off towards what Violet remembers as the banquet hall, others off to other areas of the monastery that have undoubtedly changed from Light-serving purposes to those of a more militant variety. A bit of the anger returns, burning in her chest - this beautiful place is just one more thing torn asunder and broken by the Scourge, however righteous its occupants claim to be.

The tower proves easier to climb than the walls, the stones rougher and more damaged than their easier-to-access counterparts down below. On inspecting the windows, Violet finds that these are personal chambers of some sort, a bed and sofa visible in the darkness. The windows facing out over the courtyard before the cathedral, while large and beautifully-wrought, do not open, so she climbs higher to the windows seated just below the line of the roof. These prove more practical, and Violet opens one easily and slips inside, shutting it behind her but not latching it.

The room inside, lit by a cracking hearth, is a living area with large, rough-hewn rafters stretching the length of the ceiling. They make an ideal perch for Violet, and she settles into a comfortable crouch, leaning her back against the wall. Someone has been here recently to stoke the fire, judging by the roaring of the flames, so Violet guesses her quarry will be along shortly.

Her assumption proves correct, footsteps coming up the stairs within a few minutes of her arrival, and the door to the chambers opens. It’s the young woman, who ushers in the Forsaken and hurriedly shuts the door, moving to the windows to draw shut the velvet curtains. As soon as she’s finished, the door opens again, and two people come in - one, a man with reddish-blond hair, and the other, a woman with hair as white as the stone walls around her. High Inquisitor Whitemane, in the flesh. Violet stills, becoming a living statue ready to spring at the right moment.

“Welcome, Haden,” Whitemane says, her voice much more melodic and pleasant that what Violet had been expecting. “I trust you took precautions in coming here this evening.”

“Of course, your eminence,” the Forsaken says, bowing at the waist. “However, I do come as the bearer of ill news.”

“Oh?” Whitemane asks, nodding to the young woman, who leaves with a dirty look at the Forsaken.

“Yes, your eminence. Your spy…oh, what was his name…Thomas…Timothy…”

“Tristan,” the man supplies gruffly, and Haden nods.

“Yes, that was his name.” He coughs as best a corpse can. “He’s dead.”

“By what means?” Whitemane, exchanging a glance with the other human. “Surely he wasn’t caught.”

“Afraid so, your eminence.  Didn’t even get into the city, from what I hear.”

“It seems the banshee has better security in place than we thought,” the man says, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s not even the best part,” Haden says, looking entirely too enthusiastic. “It was a human who caught him.”

“A human?” Whitemane asks, calculating concern seeping into her otherwise serene expression.

“The Dark Lady’s new pet. Came into the city a few weeks back and swore fealty to the Forsaken.”

Violet scowls up in the rafters, but no other muscles move.

“Who is he?” The man asks, and Haden chuckles.

“ _She_ ,” he corrects, much to the surprise of both humans, “is just some human.”

“Do you have a name?” Whitemane asks.

“Uh, yes, it was…Victoria…Vanessa…something like that. Family name was Devereaux, if I recall right.”

The High Inquisitor looks shocked, exchanging a glance with the man before speaking.

“How old is she?”

“Oh, not more than twenty, I’d say. Pretty little thing.”

“Too young,” the man says, and Whitemane shakes her head, pale locks reflecting the glow of the fire.

“Not to be her daughter,” she says, and the man nods thoughtfully.

“You know her, your eminence?”

“No, no,” Whitemane says, waving her hand dismissively. “Just musing on an old friend.”

The air leaves Violet’s lungs, and her heart jumps in her chest. She leans in closer, her stealthed form still obscured by the shadows cast by the rafters, and listens intently.

“Either way,” Haden says. “She caught your boy and killed him. Snapped his neck, I hear.”

“That is…unfortunate,” Whitemane says, looking at the other human. “See to it that a headstone is made for Tristan, and a record made of his loyal service and ultimate sacrifice.”

“Yes, my lady,” the man says, casting a warning glance at Haden before exiting the room.

“Has your secrecy been compromised?” Whitemane asks, and Haden shakes his head.

“I don’t think anyone is any the wiser,” he says. “Still, with your boy dead, I never got your requisition form.”

“Sister Madeline will see to it that a replacement list finds its way to you before you depart.”

“Thank you, your eminence.” Haden shifts uncomfortably. “Now, there’s the matter of my compensation…”

“Your payment will be made once the goods are delivered. You’re well aware of that.” Whitemane smiles. “The grace and favor of the Light will have to sate you for now.”

“Ah, yes…well, thank you, your eminence.” Haden bows low.

“Sister,” Whitemane calls, and the door opens with the young lady on the other side. “A replacement supply form for our loyal friend here, and then see him out.”

“Yes, your eminence.” Madeline gestures impatiently and Haden bows again, following her out of the room.

“Light be with you,” Whitemane says, but the Forsaken doesn’t reply. Now alone, the woman sighs, removing her hat and placing it on the coffee table in front of the sofa positioned before the hearth. Her gloves are the next item of clothing to be removed, and she sits on the sofa, beginning to work on loosening the laces on her boots. A few moments later, the man returns.

“Are the arrangements made for Brother Tristan?” She asks as he sits next to her.

“Yes. It’s a terrible shame. He was very good at his job.”

“It seems our mystery woman was better,” Whitemane muses, pulling off her boots.

“Do you really think it’s Eliana’s daughter? After all this time?”

Violet grips the beam below her to keep herself upright at the mention of her mother’s name. She blinks hard, willing away the tears that pool in the corners of her eyes.

“Renault, I’m ashamed for you,” Whitemane says, though it’s through a wry smile. “All things are possible through the Light, my love.”

“I find it hard to believe that such a devout servant of the Church would allow her daughter to join the ranks of the banshee’s army.” Renault sighs. “These certainly are strange times.”

“She turned from the Light, you’ll remember,” Whitemane says, face falling. “Though, I too, find it a bitter pill to swallow to think my dear friend would raise her daughter as such. I shall need to pray on it.”

“Ah, and after…” Renault says, grinning wolfishly before leaning in to press his lips to her neck. Violet turns her head, disquieted by the abrupt change of mood.

“Patience is a virtue,” Whitemane says, gently pushing him away, though she’s grinning, too. “Bring me some wine.”

“You wound me,” Renault says, rising from the sofa and taking her hand to kiss her knuckles.

“Away, you silly man.”

“Yes, your eminence,” he says, winking at her. He leaves the room, and Whitemane chuckles, rubbing her feet. A soft sigh escapes her, and she closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she turns her head and looks directly up at Violet.

“You should come down from there. You’ll catch your death up there in the cold.”

Violet freezes, even her breath stopping short.

“Come now, it’s much warmer here by the fire.” Whitemane continues to look at her, gesturing to the place beside her with one hand, the other draped gracefully along the back of the sofa. Violet hesitates, gauging the woman’s intentions, before dropping to the floor. She lands silently in a practiced crouch, straightening up to stand rigid with eyes glued to the other woman. Whitemane smiles. “There, isn’t that better?”

Violet remains silent.

“So then, who sent you?” Whitemane asks, as casually as if she was asking about the chance of rain. When Violet still doesn’t speak, she chuckles. “You’re not the first assassin to try to claim my life, my dear. And you certainly won’t be the last.”

Though she can’t process her thoughts clearly enough to speak, Violet opens her mouth, no words coming out.

“Whatever your employer is paying you, I’ll triple it. You’re the first one to ever get this close to me.” Whitemane smiles, something sinister behind her polite words. “Though, I’ll venture a guess and say the banshee sent you.”

“And if she did?” Violet asks, hating herself for the way her voice wavers.

“Ah, so she can speak!” Whitemane exclaims, sitting up and turning fully towards Violet. “The banshee is taking her mercenaries young, I see. You’re what, twenty?”

“About.”

Whitemane thinks for a moment, eyes brightening.

“Born in early spring, yes? April, I’m thinking.” Though Violet doesn’t reply, the shock that overcomes her is apparent, even from behind her mask.This only adds to the other woman’s delight. “You didn’t inherit your mother’s way with words, I see.”

“You didn’t know my mother.” It’s a flat statement, laced with a hard edge and delivered through a set jaw.

“Oh, my dear girl, we were practically family.” Whitemane’s smile fades just a bit. “That is, until she abandoned the Light.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I have no reason to lie to you. It seems dear Eliana took care of that.”

“Don’t,” Violet says, the word nearly barked as her fists clench at her sides. “Don’t you dare speak ill of her.”

“You’re Gilnean, aren’t you? You all sound the same when you’re mad.” Resting her arms on the back of the sofa, Whitemane puts her chin on her hands in a gesture too youthful for her age. “Makes sense. She said she had a sister living there. If nothing else, Ellie was clever. Crossing kingdom lines was a very smart move.”

“What are you taking about?”

“Oh, she never told you? My dear Ellie,” Whitemane says, shaking her head. “So far you’ve fallen. Lying to your own daughter.”

“Stop,” Violet yells. She knows full well she’s being manipulated into these emotions, but the shock of meeting someone who knows this much - too much to be lying - about her mother has her entirely out of sorts. “Please.”

She says it quietly, a desperate plea, and the tears she’d been trying to hold back overflow, spilling down her cheeks. Without thinking, she pulls down her mask to scrub them away with the backs of her hands. Whitemane frowns, standing from the sofa.

“You really look so much like her.” Genuine concern overcomes the other woman’s features, replacing her frown with a motherly look that Violet can’t help but seethe at as if she’s silently mocking her. “Where is she now?”

“She’s…” Violet can’t make herself say the word, instead reaching up to grasp at her necklace through her shirt.

“How did she die?” Whitemane asks, the word stinging in Violet’s chest like a hot coal. She does look saddened, though Violet is far too distressed to notice it asks she walks slowly closer to her.

“Stratholme,” Violet manages, looking up and locking tear-filled eyes with Whitemane.

“Light above,” she breathes in response. Moisture rims her eyes, too, but it’s quickly smothered out by fury. “You must join our cause…ah…”

Whitemane trails off, apparently realizing she’d never asked her would-be assassin for her name.

“What’s your name, child?”

“Violet.”

Something flashes in the other woman’s eyes.

“Her favorite flower,” she says, only a moment spent on the thought before the rage returns. “You must see that the Light has brought you here this night for a purpose. You must join us, and help us eradicate the Scourge. For your mother.”

“Do not presume to use her as a pawn,” Violet says, her own rage beginning to grow. “And do not presume to think the Light has not forsaken me as you say it did her.”

“Forsaken you? No, I can feel it within you. The Light is very much with you now.”

“You don’t know what you’re taking about,” Violet says, the hand not desperately clutching her necklace moving down to rest on the hilt of one of her swords.

“Your mother was blessed by the Light. It gave her—”

“The Light did not speak to my mother,” Violet says, taking the hilt of her sword but not drawing it, “and it does not speak to me.”

“She really never told you?” Seeing the confusion in Violet, Whitemane speaks again, her voice soft and placating as she eyes the sword in the other woman’s hand. “Eliana was a priestess, and lived and studied within this very monastery. She was my best friend.”

“My mother never set foot in Lordaeron. Not until…” Violet trails off, shaking her head violently in disbelief. “You’re lying.”

“Oh, my dear child,” Whitemane says, holding her hands out before her as if she means to draw the weeping woman into a hug. “It was she who was lying to you.”

“She was a good woman. A good mother,” Violet says, her whole body shaking. Some distant, subdued part of her brain is screaming at the closing proximity between the two of them, that she should be ready to defend herself, but her mind is far too fractured to pay common sense any heed.

“She was, yes. A true paragon of the Light.” Whitemane takes a step closer, cautiously eyeing Violet as she does. “But she fell prey to temptation and broke her sacred vows.”

“What?” Violet asks, looking up in shock, but quickly shakes her head. “No.”

“It pains me that you must find this all out in such a way, but it’s true. You were conceived of sin.”

“No,” Violet says again, backing up a few steps without realizing it.

“But the Light has brought you here to me, to atone for your mother’s sins. You must join us, Violet. For her sake.”

“No.” It’s a shout this time, and her sword is drawn and knocked from her hands in the same moment. Before her blurred mind can comprehend, Whitemane has her shoved against the wall, a blade of pure, focused Light pressed to her throat.

“Your emotions get the best of you, just as they did her. You really are your mother’s daughter.” Whitemane’s eyes, previously an unnatural red to rival Sylvanas’s, now flash with golden light as she moves her face within an inch of Violet’s. “It will be a shame to kill you.”

The physical contact jolts something in Violet’s consciousness and she shifts back into defensive mode, twisting out of the other woman’s grasp despite the Light-blade dragging across her collarbone as she does. She draws her other sword, holding it out before her, and Whitemane grins, the expression completely sinister. A pillar of light surrounds Violet and she falls to her knees, the normally soothing power of the Light stinging at her skin and going still deeper to sear against her soul. She cries out, finding herself thrown onto her back with Whitemane hovering over her, hand closing around her throat.

“Such a shame,” she coos, the Light around her coalescing into a shimmering sword in her hand. “Light have mercy on your soul.”

Violet shifts at the last possible second, the blade hitting the stone beneath her and burning a long dark mark into it, and draws a leg in to her chest, kicking Whitemane square in the stomach. The other woman cries out in surprise, coughing as she flies away from Violet and lands hard on her back. Fingers reaching out, Violet takes her sword from where it’s fallen to the floor and raises it, crawling over to Whitemane despite every nerve in her body feeling as if it’s on fire.

“The Dark Lady…sends her…regards,” she pants out, plunging the blade straight into Whitemane’s heart. The woman’s cry of pain is cut short, ending abruptly with a spatter of blood from her lips, and she falls still, both gold and red fading from her eyes until they’ve returned to pale blue. Violet collapses, forehead pressed to the cold stone, and heaves in a few deep, shuddering breaths. Once she can lift her head, she looks over at the body beside her, saying a silent prayer for the former High Inquisitor.

Muffled footsteps meet her ears, and she looks up at the door, then back to the body. Sylvanas will want proof of her deed, and she knows she doesn’t have time to take the woman’s head, so she pulls her sword from Whitemane’s chest and severs the woman’s right hand, the one bearing both a signet ring and a tattoo of a scarlet flame. The sight of blood doesn’t phase her in the least, and her attention turns now to her method of escape. Tucking the severed hand into one of her belt pouches, she runs to the wall beneath the window she entered through, trying to gain a foothold to push herself upwards. Her boots are slicked in blood and barely catch on the stone, and she’s only halfway to the rafters when the door opens behind her.

“What in—” Renault starts, dropping the bottle in his hand so wine spills out across the floor in a spray of broken glass. His eyes move from where Violet is scrabbling against the wall to Whitemane’s bloodied body, and a hum of Light swirls around him. He charges at Violet, hands barely missing the hem of her cloak as she climbs onto the rafter, and in the next second, a hammer of Light appears in his hand. He throws it upwards, missing Violet by less than an inch, and it shatters the beam she’s perched on. Panicking, Violet leaps for the window, tumbling out onto the roof and landing hard on her shoulder, the same one now burned by the closeness of the paladin’s Light-hammer, as well as Whitemane’s blade. With a grunt, she pushes herself up, sprinting across the roof on legs that threaten to buckle under her at any moment.

Renault is shouting from within the tower, and by the time Violet is nearly across the monastery to the graveyeard where she’d entered, the cathedral bells have begun to ring. There’s shouting all around her from the courtyard and buildings below, and then the baying of dogs. Leaping from the roof to the graveyard wall, Violet jumps to the ground outside, landing in a roll that saves her from serious injury but still pains every part of her body, her muscles still sensitive from being assaulted with the Light. She stands, leaning on the wall for a moment, when movement catches her eye. When she reaches for her swords, she finds that she’d forgotten them in her haste, and she reaches down for the dagger in her boot.

“Stay your blade, human,” the shape in the night says, and the Dark Ranger slips from the shadows. “Seems you’ve raised the alarm.”

“So it would seem,” Violet replies, moving towards her. The elf holds out her gloved hand, and in it is a dark gray stone with a glowing blue swirl carved into it. Violet slaps her hand onto it, and in the next second, she’s tumbling to her knees before the throne within the Undercity. Nathanos’s blighthounds spring towards her, only halted by a barked command from their master.

“Am I to assume you were successful in your mission?” Sylvanas asks, standing and looking down at Violet with her arms crossed over her chest. “Or is that your own blood you’re covered in?”

“I did not fail you,” Violet says, gasping for a breath before reaching into her belt pouch and tossing Whitemane’s hand on the ground before her. The blighthounds yip excitedly at the smell of blood, but the sound is quickly drowned out by thunderous laughter coming from the dreadlord. It shakes its whole body, wings and all, and his felfire eyes spark with utter delight.

“Varimathras,” Sylvanas growls. “Keep your amusement to yourself.”

“Yes, as you wish,” it says, laughter dying down to a throaty rumble. Sylvanas picks up the hand, looking it over and no doubt finding that it’s still warm. Violet pushes herself upright and slips off her gloves, wiping at the blood on her face and neck.

“This is all the proof you were able to bring me?”

“I had no time for her head,” Violet says, looking up at the Queen.

“The Crusade was in an uproar,” the Dark Ranger says. “I’m surprised you couldn’t hear the bells pealing from here.”

“That will be all, Cyndia,” Sylvanas says, and the Dark Ranger bows. “Tell the others to watch for signs of retaliation.”

“Of course, my lady.” The elf disappears into the shadows, and Sylvanas turns her attention back to Violet.

“I suppose this will have to suffice,” she says, turning the hand over to examine the signet ring. “You’ve done well. Better than I expected.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Violet says, pushing herself to her feet. “I discovered the identity of the traitor within the city, as well.”

“Really, now?” Sylvanas says, and Violet nods.

“His name is Haden. The provisioner.” Violet pulls off the scarf covering her hair. “He’s been diverting supplies to the monastery on Whitemane’s orders.”

Sylvanas’s face darkens, and she nods her head at Nathanos.

“I’ll hunt him down for you, my lady,” he says, calling his blighthounds to his heel and striding out of the throne room without another word.

“You’ve done very well, it seems,” Sylvanas says. A banshee appears beside her. “Take her to her new quarters.”

The banshee nods, and Violet blinks, entirely sure she’d just imagined the Queen’s words.

“Quarters, my lady?”

“Yes. As one of my agents, you’ve earned a bed and a room to yourself.” She looks Violet up and down. “And I’d say a hot bath.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“You might want to pay the boy a visit, too. He’s apparently quite shaken up at your handiwork this morning.”

Violet swallows hard, nodding.

“Tell his uncle the good news.” She says, a smirk touching her lips. “I’m sure he’ll want to join me in celebration.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Sylvanas nods at the banshee, moving away from the throne and towards the secret door, which closes behind her and leaves a thick silence hanging in the room.

“Full of surprises, indeed,” Varimathras says, grinning at Violet’s obvious discomfort with its otherworldly voice. She shivers, following the banshee with a wary glance over her shoulder at the dreadlord, whose eyes follow her until she’s out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I have a headcanon that Mograine and Whitemane were...uh...doing some things the Church might frown upon...


	13. Misery Loves Company

Violet sinks deeper into the water, allowing its heat to seep into her aching muscles and relax them. To her surprise, her new chambers include a bathroom, complete with a bathtub equipped with running water. It’s no small miracle, she realizes, and allows herself to smile at the unexpected luxury. She’s already scrubbed off the blood that was splattered across her face and cleaned the cut on her collarbone, though she’ll need to visit the Apothecarium to buy some herbs and cloth to properly bandage the wound. It still aches, and she holds her hand over it under the water.

The days events leave her utterly exhausted, and she soon finds herself nodding off. An image of Whitemane’s lifeless body flashes across her mind and she sit up with a gasp, realizing the water around her has started to go cold. She quickly washes her hair, working out the knots and stripping away the dirt and oil accumulated over her time spent in manual labor, and the golden sheen underneath returns as the water dirties. Standing from the tub and drying off, she lets the water drain as she slips on her shirt, braiding her hair down her back before leaving the bathroom.

Her new quarters are small, but compared to the closet she’d called home for the past week, they’re enormous. The front room is nothing more than a highback chair and hearth in one corner and a small table and chair next to an enchanted coldbox in the other, but it’s hers, and she’s grateful for it. The bedroom is nothing fancy, just an empty armoire and bed, though the latter is big enough that she can stretch her arms and legs all the way out and still not reach the edges of the mattress.

Still, Violet feels utterly alone, and she kneels on the floor beside her bed, hands clasped together and head bowed as she calls to the Light for comfort. She can still feel it, warm like the rays of the sun, but she can’t call it into her body, into her fingertips to heal and harm like she used to. Whitemane’s words hang heavy on her shoulders, and she prays for guidance. In the silent darkness of her room, she finds herself begin to pray for others, too.

Though she’s taken lives many times before, something about today sits uneasily in her gut. She prays for the young rogue, asking the Light to keep his soul, and asks for his forgiveness. There’s no point in trying to explain her reasoning to his memory, but she hopes the Light will understand what she did was ultimately a mercy to him.

Violet is still for a moment, mind wandering from the rogue to the High Inquisitor, and a bubble of anger rises in her chest. She quells it, asking forgiveness for killing Whitemane. Remorse coils around her, knowing she ultimately ended the woman’s life out of self-defense, but deep in her heart she knows she went to the Monastery with the intent to kill, regardless of what happened while she was there. A woman so devoted to the Light deserved better than the blade of an assassin.

The Light pricks against her skin, tangible but still out of reach, and Violet finds herself thinking of her mother. She was taught from a young age that when someone dies, their soul goes to the Light and becomes part of it, ever watchful of those still living, and she calls silently to her mother for guidance.

“I’m lost, mother,” she says quietly, tears already wetting her cheeks as she presses her clasped hands against her forehead in the darkness. “I fear I will never find my way again.”

Her locket hangs heavy against her chest, the weight now both comforting and distressing, and she breaks her prayer to hold her palm against it.

“Why did you lie to me? Why was I not worthy of the truth?” Her shoulders shake as she weeps, slumping against the bed with her forehead pressed into the bedsheets. One fist curls into the blanket and her words turn ragged. “Why did you leave me when you promised you would forever keep me safe?”

The silence of the room mocks her, as if she somehow expected her mother to reach from beyond the grave to comfort her after all these years. Instead, she feels the Light slipping away from her, leaving her shivering from anger and grief more than the bone-deep cold all around her. In a city of thousands, in the land she used to call home, Violet feels very small now, and utterly alone.

 

—

Tyri’el blinks, the colors on the parchment before him blurring as his eyes shift out of focus. He rubs at them, careful to keep the paint on his fingers from coming off on his face as he does, and leans back in his chair. The clock on the mantle tells him it’s just past midnight, and that he’s been holed up in his apartment for nearly half the day. His stomach complains loudly and he grumbles in response, looking at his work and really seeing it for the first time since he started.

It’s a lush landscape, filled with red-brown rocks and soaring trees that sprout twisting vines in full bloom. Gorgrond, his books would tell him, the part of Draenor he used to call home. That is, how it looked before the sin’dorei’s greed for mana leeched all life from the land and turned it into a barren, purpled wasteland. Netherstorm, their prince had named it - their people’s new home amongst the stars. He almost burns the painting, the edges curling and smoldering before he sets it down and lets it be, mostly unharmed.

Turning down the oil lamp and capping off his paints, Tyri’el stands from his chair and stretches, unwinding hours of tension from his muscles. Part of him wants to stay in his apartment, to sulk an open another bottle of sweet wine, or perhaps something stronger, but he hears his mother’s scolding words in his head and thinks better of it. His eyes find a stack of letters amongst the mess of his desk, one he knows is from her, and he picks it out of the pile, unfolding it and rereading the words neatly penned there for the seventh or eighth time.

_My beloved sundrop,_

_I assume there’s been trouble with the interplanetary post system again, as I haven’t received any word back from you in quite some time. If you do not wish to write to me, please, at the very least, send something to your niece. I may understand your moods, but she does not. I pray all is well, and that you haven’t fallen ill from lack of sunlight._

_With love,_  
_Your Mother_

Tyri’el sighs, stuffing the letter back into its envelope and burying it at the bottom of the pile with a guilty frown. He takes a fresh sheet of parchment from one of the drawers of his desk and opens a bottle of ink in his niece’s favorite color, dipping his quill and beginning to write.

_Senna,_

_Forgive me for not responding to your letters sooner. I’ve been terribly busy._

_How goes your studying? Your penmanship is improving._

_With any luck, I will be free to visit for your birthday._

_Sincerely,_  
_Uncle T_

Waving the parchment to dry the ink, Tyri’el tries to ignore the guilt gnawing at his conscience. He really should write more, but at the moment, it’s nearly impossible to think of his niece without his thoughts wandering to her parents. Shaking his head, he folds the letter into even sections, sliding it into an envelope and pulling a stick of wax from yet another drawer. With a snap of his fingers, he produces a small flame, melting the deep red wax and letting it drip to seal the envelope. He removes the ring from his right hand, pressing it into the wax before returning it to his finger. The symbol left behind is the crest of the Sunfury family, a sword surrounded by the spread wings of an eagle, further encompassed by a likeness of the sun. A moment more is spent penning the address, and Tyri’el takes his coat and leaves his apartment, sealing the arcane lock with a swipe of his fingers as he shuts the door.

The city is still quite lively, even at this hour, as the dead have no need for sleep. The Magic Quarter is bustling with spellcasters of every race, all going about their own agendas and paying him no mind. Tyri’el is thankful for the chaos, slipping silent and unnoticed through the crowds as he makes his way towards the Trade Quarter. The post office is quiet when he arrives, only the postmaster present in the small shop.

“Foreign or domestic?” The Forsaken asks, looking up from her ledger.

“Interplanetary,” Tyri’el replies, and she grumbles under her breath.

“Four fifty,” she says, and he nods, handing her a few silver pieces. She looks at the address. “No mail to Shattrath until Wednesday, Magister. Some draenei holy day.”

“That’s fine,” he says, and she throws the letter into a waiting bin marked ‘Outland’. He thanks her and leaves, pulling his coat tighter around him as he steps back into the city. A drink will do him some good tonight, he decides.

—

Though her first stipend from the Queen is by no means a fortune, the gold Violet finds waiting for her on her bedside table is enough to warrant a small smile and a short feeling of excitement at the freedom she seems to now have. When sitting in the dark of her chambers has done nothing good for her, she decides to get dressed and head out into the city. She’s met with less hostility by the citizens, but they now eye her with more awe than respect. Word must have spread quickly.

The auction house is nothing like its counterpart in Stormwind, this one much less organized and very poorly lit, and Violet has trouble finding what she needs. Eventually, she leaves with a few new sets of clothes, a heavy woolen coat that she quickly dons, and two new shortswords to replace the ones she’d left behind at the Monastery. She also purchases a new rucksack and an alchemy set, as well as a number of bundles of herbs and a small mortar and pestle. There’s still a good amount of gold left in her coinpurse, and she decides that a proper meal is in order. After all, her promotion from scullery maid is worth celebrating.

One of the monstrous corpse-creatures, aptly named an abomination according to the auctioneer, points her in the direction of the nearest tavern, its lopsided mouth turning up in a grin at her clear discomfort. Violet thanks it awkwardly, following the curve of the city into the outer ring of the Trade Quarter until she finds a hanging sign marking the tavern. It’s called ‘The Hanged Man’, a name that does nothing to settle the human’s nerves as she enters.

The whole place falls silent as she enters, the patrons and staff alike taking a long pause to glare at her before picking up with their meals and duties. None of them try to throttle her, and some even sneak wide-eye glances as she passes and makes her way to a table in the back. She sits with her back against the wall, memorizing the layout and the location of each doorway, including the exit and the archway leading to the kitchen. A female blood elf approaches her, a small pad of paper in her hand.

“What can I get for you, love?” She asks, and Violet is momentarily taken aback. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the elf was speaking with a pure Dun Morogh accent.

“Ah,” Violet begins, having not even glanced at the menu written on a chalkboard on the wall. “Whatever you’d recommend will be fine.”

“As you wish,” the elf says, turning and leaving without a word. Violet watches her curiously, noting that her gait is off for someone so tall and slender. She shakes her head, sure the stench of the city must be going to her head. The elf returns a few minutes later, a steaming bowl of something dark and smelling of meat in her hands, as well as a glass of wine and a yeast roll. She sets them down, stepping closer. “A raven calls at midnight.”

She says it quietly enough that only Violet can hear her, though her face stays calm and even. Violet looks up at her, breath catching in her throat. She quirks an eyebrow.

“The darkness answers in kind,” she replies, and the elf smiles.

“Yer not alone, lass,” the elf says, definitely speaking like someone from the dwarven homeland now. “Bide yer time.”

With that, the elf leaves, and Violet can’t help but grin, hiding her elation behind her wine glass. The food is good, as is the wine, and she relaxes back into her chair as she eats. Sensing movement near her, she looks up expecting to see the elf again, but instead finds another sin’dorei.

“May I join you?” Tyri’el asks, and Violet nods hesitantly, swallowing her mouthful of food. He pulls off his coat, sitting across from her, and looks at her in question when she eyes his clothes. “What?”

“You’re covered in paint,” she says, and he looks down, sighing when he sees that she’s right. Apparently he didn’t notice the bright splotches all over the otherwise clean white of his shirt.

“So I am,” he says, brushing at the stains despite knowing they’re long since dried. The deep circles under his eyes are stark against his fair skin as he drags his hands down his face. “I see you made it back in one piece.”

“Not wholly unscathed, however,” Violet says, reaching up to rub at her shoulder.

“You’re the talk of the town tonight,” he says, shifting in his chair.

“Oh?” She says, having guessed as much.

“It took you one night to accomplish what Sylvanas couldn’t do in nearly five years.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “You never told me you were a rogue.”

“You never asked,” Violet says with a soft snort. “No one did.”

A server comes to the table, this time a Forsaken, and Tyri’el orders dinner and something to drink.

“The strongest you’ve got,” he says, and the woman nods, shooting Violet a wary look as she leaves.

“Is something bothering you?” Violet asks, and Tyri’el shakes his head.

“Nothing getting blackout drunk can’t remedy,” he replies, and Violet frowns.

“About this morning,” she begins, ready to apologize for her actions earlier that day, but he holds up his hand to silence her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and Violet’s frown deepens. The server returns a few moments later, setting down some kind of roast fowl and a tall glass of dark amber liquid. Tyri’el thanks her, picking up the glass with the intent of downing it in one go, but Violet takes it from him before his lips even touch it. He scowls, reaching for it. “Give that back.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who can keep his head after something this strong,” she says, holding the glass farther away when he leans over the table in an attempt to reclaim his drink.

“You must not be familiar with the concept of getting drunk,” he spits back, grunting in frustration. When she doesn’t relent, he exhales sharply through his nose and stands from his chair, slamming a gold piece onto the table and leaving without taking his coat. Violet picks it up, putting down a few coins on the table and following him out of the tavern, well aware of the dozens of pairs of eyes watching her go. He’s already a few yards ahead of her, and she quickens her pace to keep up with him, calling his name. He doesn’t reply, and Violet reaches out and grabs his shoulder, turning him around and shoving him into the wall. With a surprised grunt, he tries to remove her hand, but she holds him in place. “Let go of me.”

“Not until you let me apologize,” Violet says, shoving his coat at him. He catches it with his free hand, scoffing.

“Apologize for preventing me from having a perfectly nice evening? No thank you.”

“No, you bloody idiot,” Violet replies, shaking his shoulder. “For this morning.”

“Why? It wasn’t my neck you snapped.” Tyri’el grimaces at his own words.

“Keep this up and it might be,” Violet growls, loosening her grip and taking a step back a moment later when she realizes what she’s said. Tyri’el’s eyes are wide, and he tries to tell him self his knees are shaking because of adrenaline, not because of the primal fear curling in his stomach at the feral look in her eyes. Violet takes in a breath through her nose and closes her eyes for a moment, opening them and speaking as calmly as she can. “Will you just hear me out?”

“I don’t—“

“Please,” Violet says, almost pleading. Her sincerity gives Tyri’el pause, and he finds himself nodding. Violet relaxes, searching for the right words to properly express yourself. “What you saw this morning, what I did, was…”

She trails off. It wasn’t wrong, she tells herself, and speaks again.

“I acted without considering how it might affect someone who isn’t as used to killing as I am.” She meets his eyes, willing him to believe her. “I am sorry for that.”

Tyri’el laughs, a short, almost hysterical sound, and Violet jumps, looking at him worriedly.

“You think I’ve never killed before? A Sunfury that’s never seen battle? Never been the bearer of sword and spell against a weaker foe?” Tyri’el’s jaw clenches, his glowing eye blazing brighter. “You think me a soft-handed scholar so unused to war and the taking of lives?”

“I never said that,” Violet says, warning creeping into her tone.

“You didn’t have to,” Tyri’el replies. “You humans are so short-sighted. So caught up in your delusions of grandeur that you fail to see how you’re just petulant children compared to—“

Violet strikes him across the face, the back of her hand connecting with his cheek so hard his vision sparks with color. He stumbles sideways, hand coming to cradle his face as tears of shock spring to his eyes.

“This is not about me thinking you weak,” Violet says. “Just tell me you accept my apology so I can stop feeling so Light-damned guilty.”

“It’s not that simple,” Tyri’el says, quietly, voice shaking. His cheeks color with embarrassment, then with shame.

“And why not?”

“That man,” Tyri’el says, blinking back tears. “I watched you kill him the same way I had to watch my brother die.”

Violet gasps, hand coming up reflexively to cover her mouth, eyes wide as she does.

“Light, Tyri’el,” she says, heart dropping at the look of utter heartbreak painted across his fair features. “I…I had no idea.”

“How could you?” He asks, still cradling his cheek.

“Light,” Violet repeats, her own eyes now filled with moisture, though hers are tears of utter, wretched shame. “I am so sorry.”

“You should be,” Tyri’el says, his skin flushed with a strange, almost electric heat. Violet takes a step back, then another, looking up at him through red-rimmed eyes. She opens her mouth, closing it when words fail her. Tyri’el, still seething, speaks. “I do not accept your apology.”

“I wouldn’t forgive me, either,” Violet admits quietly. “I…”

She can’t stand to look at him any longer, his cheek bright red where she’d struck him and his eyes filled with a cold, hard fire. Taking one final step back, she turns without another word, fleeing into the city and out of sight. Tyri’el leans his head back against the wall, willing his pulse to calm. The city around him is too loud, too busy, and he teleports himself above ground, sitting down with a huff. The ruins around him are quiet, lit under a waxing moon, and from his vantage point atop what used to be the upper reaches of the keep, he can see all of the city and out into Tirisfal beyond.

The cold air is sobering, and he wipes his eyes before scrubbing his palms against his trousers. Counting his breaths, he lets his mind go blank, knowing that he could very easily work himself up again if he dwells on what just happened. Still, Violet’s words ring in his head, her audacity to ask him for forgiveness and in the next moment strike him. His hands fist at his sides and he screams, letting all of his anger out until his throat burns and his lungs are utterly empty. With his anger now spent, he falls back against the wall, a sick, hollow feeling overcoming him.

As if in response to his agony, the lone call of a wolf rises from the forest beyond the city’s gates. It sounds almost mournful, ringing across the hills until dying out in what sounds like a choked sob. It’s strangely comforting, knowing some other being is as alone in the darkness as he is.


	14. An Understanding

Violet stares at the reflection cast in her teacup, the discolored image of herself coming back tired and haggard. She’s curled up in the chair in her quarters, listening to the crackles of the logs in the hearth while still dressed in her nightclothes, though it’s well past dawn. Sleep had eluded her for much of the night, leaving her to toss and turn while her conscience berated her without pause. Only sheer exhaustion from the day’s events allowed her a few blessed hours of rest, but now she’s bleary-eyed and awake, contemplating whether she should get dressed and find something to keep her mind busy or sit in her quarters and sulk. So far, she’s been leaning towards the latter.

A knock on the door startles her out of her thoughts, and she rises from the chair and moves to the door, opening it just a crack. To her surprise, she finds Tyri’el on the other side, looking around as if he’s afraid he might get in trouble if caught outside her quarters. He startles when he realizes she’s come to the door, and Violet quirks an eyebrow. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s still wearing the same paint-splattered clothes he had been the night before.

“May I come in?” He asks, and Violet looks him over, unsure of his intentions. Nothing in his body language suggests his calm is merely an act, and he doesn’t look armed, though she knows he could quite easily just set her on fire if he wanted to. Maybe it’s because he’s so disheveled, or because she’s still wracked with guilt, but Violet nods shortly, stepping away from the door to allow him to step inside. Upon entering, Tyri’el immediately moves to the fire, drawing out the flames with both hands until they’ve grown into a bright blaze. Shutting the door, Violet watches him, seeing that he’s shivering where he stands, and that his boots and the hem of his coat are covered in early morning dew. He feels her eyes on him and looks up, cheeks pinking. “I’ve been outside all night.”

“Why?” Violet asks, moving to fill another cup with the tea she’d brewed with her alchemy set. She hands it to him, and he takes it, wrapping his hands around the warm porcelain and taking an experimental sip.

“I suppose I lost track of time,” he says, taking a bigger drink of what he finds is spiced earthroot tea.

“About last night,” Violet begins, seeing the beginnings of a dark bruise on his cheek where she’s struck him, but he holds up his hand to silence her.

“That’s why I’m here,” Tyri’el says, thankful he has the tea to use as an excuse for a momentary pause. Violet folds her arms over her chest, waiting for him to speak. He takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “I came to apologize for overreacting.”

Violet opens her mouth to say that he had every right to act as he did, that she was the one who overreacted and had been too stubborn to seek him out for her own apology, but he stops her again.

“Just hear me out,” he says, and Violet nods, sitting in the chair with a frown. Draining the last of the tea from his cup, Tyri’el turns back to the fire, hating himself for not being able to look at her as he speaks. “When you killed that man, it forced up memories that I was not ready to deal with. Thoughts I’ve avoided for years.”

“Your brother’s death,” Violet ventures, and Tyri’el nods.

“I was angry with you for making me think about him,” he says, staring into the fire. “I was angry with myself for trying to forget him. I….”

Tyri’el sighs, forcing himself to continue speaking.

“I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Violet says. “You had every right to be upset with me. You still do.”

Tyri’el shakes his head.

“You couldn’t have possibly known. It was my fault for—”

“I shouldn’t have struck you,” Violet says, standing from her chair. She’s suddenly furious that he would even think to attempt to validate her actions.

“No,” Tyri’el says, turning his head to look at her from the corner of his eye. “But in a way, I’m grateful you did.”

“Excuse me?” Violet asks incredulously.

“I believe you quite literally slapped some sense into me,” Tyri’el replies, fully facing her and looking her in the eye as he speaks. “I should be thanking you for it.”

“I didn’t think I’d hit you hard enough to cause brain damage,” Violet says, taken aback by his words. “I won’t accept thanks for it.”

“Let me rephrase,” Tyri’el says, now hearing the absurdity of his own statement. “Since that moment, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my brother. What’s more, I haven’t wanted to stop.”

Violet blinks in surprise, unsure how to respond to his statement.

“I walked all night. Nearly to Brill and back. In that time, I realized I owe him better than trying to forget he ever existed.” Tyri’el sits down before the hearth, rolling his cup between his hands. His eyes are fixed on it, but at the same time are far away. After a moment, he looks up at her. “I realized a lot of things about myself.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Violet asks, left completely out of sorts by his confessions.

“Because somewhere out in the forest last night, I realized something about you, too.” He speaks earnestly, locking eyes with her. “I think you’re just as lost as I am.”

Stiffening in something between shock and indignation, Violet can only stare at him. His face reddens, the color going all the way to the tips of his ears, and he looks away, swallowing hard at his own candidness. Violet battles internally, part of her wanting to offer some quick retort on how he knows nothing about her or her hardships, but as words continue to fail her, she realizes all at once that he might be right. She knows very little about him, now that she thinks on it, and she’s never considered what sort of trials he’s had to endure. He’s likely hundreds of years older than her, and there’s no telling what might have happened to him in all that time. Having thought she couldn’t possibly feel any more guilt towards him, Violet now feels positively wretched for her self-centered opinion of him.

“I should go,” Tyri’el says finally, moving to stand from his seat by the hearth.

“Stay,” Violet says, and he freezes in place to look up at her. She frowns, searching for an explanation for her quick words. “You…still look cold.”

“If you insist,” he says, resuming his seat with some confusion. He’d fully expected her to throw him out of her quarters by now, but instead, she stands and regards him for a moment, hands on her hips.

“Would you like more tea?” She asks, reaching for his cup. He nods, handing it to her. Her hands shake as she pours, and she returns the cup to him, pausing to look down at him. Tyri’el glances up, about to ask her if something is the matter, but before he can, Violet sits next to him with her back to the fire. She draws her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them, the whole action making her look much younger than her age. Tyri’el has to remind himself that even for a human, she’s still quite young. Barely an adult, and far too young to have such sadness behind her eyes.

“What was he like?” She asks quietly, taking a moment to look over at him. “Your brother?”

“He was…” Tyri’el begins, smiling sadly as he runs his thumb around the rim of his cup. “He was everything I aspired to be.”

“A mage, then?” Violet asks, but Tyri’el shakes his head.

“No, I inherited the arcane from my mother.” He takes a sip of tea, savoring the taste on his tongue. “Ralen was a ranger, like our father.”

Violet repeats the name softly to herself, testing the sound of it.

“It means ‘champion’ in Old Thalassian,” Tyri’el explains, his weary smile continuing. “Needless to say, our father had high hopes for him from birth.”

“Did he live up to them?” Violet asks, seeing Tyri’el begin to relax a little.

“And then some,” Tyri’el says, nodding. “Top of his class at the Farstrider Academy, and the first person to earn the rank of Captain before their two-hundredth birthday in nearly four centuries. He was…he excelled at everything.”

“Were you close?”

“When we were younger,” Tyri’el says, chuckling softly. “Though, like any young man, he eventually wanted to be free of his bookish kid brother.”

Violet smiles, glad to see a bit of mirth in the elf. The humor quickly leaves him, his eyes falling to the cup in his lap.

“I know now how much I’ve missed him,” he admits, shoulders sagging. “And how much I’ve neglected his daughter.”

“You have a niece?” Violet asks, and Tyri’el nods.

“She was only three when the Scourge invaded. Too young to lose her parents.” He sighs, taking a drink. “She reminds me too much of her father. I’ve avoided visiting because of it.”

“Where is she now?” Violet asks, turning her body to face him more. He looks heartbroken, even his long ears sagging with grief.

“She lives in Shattrath with my parents.”

“Why so far away?” Violet asks, knowing nothing about the city other than the fact that it sits far on the other side of the Dark Portal.

“My father was one of those that broke loyalties with Prince Kael’thas and surrendered to the draenei,” Tyri’el explains, throat straining as he speaks. “My mother brought Senna to Shattrath, hoping to escape the devastation in Quel’Thalas. They’ve lived there ever since.”

Violet regards him sympathetically, knowing all too well about losing one’s homeland, and she holds her tongue despite her curiosity.

“What about you?” Tyri’el asks, glancing over to find the human deep in thought.

“What about me?”

“Your family. You’ve never spoken of them.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Violet says, hand finding her necklace. “I have no way of knowing what happened to them since the wall closed.”

“They’re still in Gilneas?”

Violet nods.

“My aunt and uncle and cousins were in Stormglen Village last I knew. My stepfather and stepbrother were planning to move from Greyhaven after…” Violet’s breath hitches. “After my mother died.”

“You couldn’t have been very old at that point,” Tyri’el says, thinking of the recent timeline and adding the years in his head.

“Thirteen,” Violet says, and Tyri’el’s chest aches at the utterly forlorn air about her. “It was my birthday when word came to the capital of what had happened.”

Glancing over at him, Violet sees Tyri’el’s unvoiced confusion and takes a steadying breath before continuing.

“My mother was in Stratholme when Arthas lost his mind and…” She shakes her head. “The Greymane wall closed soon after.”

“I’m sorry,” Tyri’el says, though he knows his words won’t help.

“I miss her every day,” Violet admits, her other hand coming around her necklace.

“Was that hers?” Tyri’el asks, gesturing with his head to her hands. Violet nods, baring it in the light of the fire.

“She gave it to me before she died. Said to always keep it on me, that it would keep me safe.” Violet wipes at her eyes. “I haven’t ever taken it off.”

“You’ve been on your own since then?” Tyri’el asks, chest aching again.

“No, I still had my mentor,” she says on a sigh, tucking her necklace under the collar of her nightshirt. “But when the Light stopped speaking to me, I had to leave the Silver Hand.”

Tyri’el frowns. The elves’ relationship with the Light is different than that of the humans, but he’s certain he’s never heard of someone losing their divine connection, and certainly not a paladin, no matter how much of a novice they may be.

“What happened?” He asks, immediately regretting his words at the devastation plain in Violet’s features.

“I…fell ill, and when I recovered, I could no longer call on the Light as I had before.” She wipes her eyes again, and looks over at him. “Can we talk about something else? I’ve really had enough dredging up of ancient history for one day, I think.”

“Of course,” Tyri’el says, somewhat relieved that she’s decided to end the conversation. He’s quite disconcerted by everything he’s learned about her, though he’s grateful she’s opened up to him, however briefly it may have been. It takes great courage to speak of such things, a fact he’s intimately familiar with now. They sit in silence for a moment before Violet rises.

“I have something for you,” she says, walking into what Tyri’el assumes is her bedroom. She emerges a moment later with a cloth pouch in her hands, and returns to sit next to him before holding it out to him. He takes it hesitantly, surprised at how heavy the bag seems, and pulls on the drawstring to open it. Inside is a weighted brass magnifying glass, and he turns it in the firelight to examine the expert craftsmanship.

“What’s this for?” He asks, and Violet’s cheeks color in shame.

“To replace your reading glass. The one I broke.”

“That was you?” Tyri’el asks, wide-eyed. “I thought it’d just fallen from the table.”

“I used it to translate your message from Sylvanas, and I…” Violet sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“No harm done, I suppose. This is much nicer, besides. Thank you.” He manages a smile, one that she returns tiredly.

In the Trade Quarter, the clock begins to chime, marking the time to be nine o’clock. With the warmth of the fire at his back, and the weight now mostly gone from his conscience, Tyri’el feels the night of walking and his lack of sleep starting to catch up with him. He fights against the drowsiness, blinking hard when his eyes go out of focus.

“You should rest,” Violet says, seeing him start to rock back and forth as he struggles against his fatigue. She’s begun to feel sleepy, as well, despite having had a few more hours of rest than him. Tyri’el nods tiredly, looking over at her.

“Will you be all right?”

“Me? I’ll be fine. Why would you ask that?”

“I just thought…” He begins, but thinks better of it. “Nevermind.”

With that, Tyri’el pushes himself to his feet, and Violet takes his teacup from him. He stows the magnifying glass in his coat pocket, moving to the door. With his hand on the handle, he pauses, turning to look at her. She’s just getting to her feet, pushing her hair from where it’s fallen in her face.

“Thank you,” he says, unable to fully articulate how grateful he is. Already he’s penning another letter to his niece in his mind, and one to his mother, as well. Violet nods, and a silent understanding passes between them. Tyri’el smiles at her as best he can, and leaves. Locking the door behind him, Violet allows herself a small laugh, both for her own foolishness and for his. She shakes her head, pressing her palm to her forehead in disbelief, and moves into her bedroom to dress herself for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyri'el's brother, Ralen, is not the apprentice you have to turn into a pig in one of the blood elf starting quests. Same name, different person. I was already attached to the name by the time I realized that, sooo...


	15. The Warchief

“Enter,” Sylvanas calls when a knock comes on the door to her chambers. The door opens and a Dark Ranger hurries inside, looking as flustered as an undead elf can. “Yes, Anya?”

“Forgive the intrusion, my lady,” she begins, nodding in acknowledgment to Beleron where he sits on the sofa beside Sylvanas. “One of the banshees has informed me that the Warchief has been spotted emerging from a portal within the Magic Quarter.”

“The Warchief, here?” Sylvanas asks, exchanging a distressed look with Beleron. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, my lady. High Overlord Saurfang is with him.”

“Have they given any word as to why they’ve come?” Beleron asks, placing a bookmark between the pages of his book and standing. Sylvanas slings her bow over her shoulder, followed by the quiver she’d been mending, and stands as well.

“No, Archmage.” Anya shakes her head. “The Warchief was very clear that he would only speak to the Queen, and that it is a matter of great import.”

“Bring him to my study,” Sylvanas instructs, and Anya nods before leaving swiftly.

“This is troubling, indeed,” Beleron says, following Sylvanas through a hidden door that appears when she presses on a certain part of the wall.

“I can only assume it’s ill news,” Sylvanas says as they travel through the torch-lit corridor. “A summons to Orgrimmar would have been cause enough for concern, but to have Thrall come directly here with Saurfang at his heels…”

She trails off, the only sound in the dim light being their hurried footfalls. The twisting and turning of the corridor leads them down and finally to another secret door, this one opening up to reveal the Queen’s study. The room is empty, but voices can be heard from the other side of the main door. Sylvanas seats herself at her desk, Beleron coming to stand beside her. A few moments later, the door opens and Anya rushes in, holding it open with her head bowed. A large figure emerges through the doorway, followed by another, and the door closes behind them to leave the four alone in the room.

“Warchief,” Sylvanas says, her earlier worry hidden behind her practiced nonchalance. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“Lady Windrunner,” Thrall says, approaching the desk. He nods to Beleron. “Archmage.”

“I pray this is merely an unannounced social visit,” Sylvanas says with a curt nod in the direction of the older orc who comes to stand beside Thrall. “But with the High Overlord at your side, I believe that might be wishful thinking on my part, yes?”

“I apologize for our sudden appearance, Sylvanas,” Thrall begins, setting his massive stone hammer head-first on the floor next to him. “But I’ve heard from many adventurers that you’ve taken a human into your service, and that they fight under your banner. Is this true?”

“It is,” Sylvanas says, watching the Warchief with calculating calmness.

“I trust I don’t need to tell you how much of a risk it is to accept an Alliance runaway into your fold,” Thrall continues, his bright blue eyes stern but reserved.

“I understand your concern, Warchief,” Sylvanas says, standing from her chair. “I can assure you that she poses no risk to the security or the integrity of our great faction.”

“How can you be sure?” The older orc interjects, and Thrall gestures for him to be silent, though he waits for an answer from the Queen.

“First and foremost, Saurfang,” Sylvanas says, eyes narrowing almost unnoticeably, “I’ll remind you that I was not born yesterday. I’ve commanded thousands of rangers, and thus, I am an excellent judge of character and have deemed her to be no threat to the Forsaken, nor to the Horde. Second, I’ve already made sure to test her loyalty to me, and she delivered capitally.”

“Tested? How exactly?” Thrall asks, exchanging a side-eyed glance with Saurfang.

“Not only did she uncover the identity of a traitor within the Forsaken ranks, she also single-handedly brought down the High Inquisitor of the Scarlet Crusade, on my orders.”

“Impressive as that may be, it does little to convince me that this human is loyal to you. Can you be sure she’s not a spy, or otherwise an agent of the Alliance?”

“She was not brought into our custody willingly,” Beleron says. “In the process of saving my nephew’s life, she was wounded and he brought her here for healing. Admittedly, not the smartest of actions on his part, but once she was here, she swore fealty to the Forsaken without coercion.”

“Nevertheless,” Thrall says, gaze shifting back to Sylvanas, “I want to meet this agent of yours and judge them for myself.”

Sylvanas nods, and a banshee appears beside her. The orcs don’t seem at all surprised, but they eye the spectral woman with some degree of unease.

“Where is the girl?”

“The human was sent to Deathknell by way of Brill, my queen. She departed this morning.”

“Find her, and instruct her to return to the city immediately.”

“Of course, my queen,” the banshee says, bowing before dissolving out of sight.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, Warchief. The girl is on a mission by my orders, but will be here presently.”

“Very well,” Thrall says, and Saurfang grunts unhappily beside him. “We will wait.”

—

In the thick fog hanging over Brill, Violet dismounts from her skeletal horse and ties its reins to the hitching post outside the inn. Though the sun is high, the mist still clings to the town, shrouding it in bleak, solemn cold. The inn is warmer, though an unnatural chill permeates the place as it does the entirety of Tirisfal, and Violet pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The innkeeper glares at her as she passes, but makes no attempt to stop her. Once inside the small tavern contained within the inn, Violet approaches the bar and orders something to eat, having ridden from the Undercity to Brill all morning without stopping. The barkeep grumbles in acknowledgment, and Violet thanks him, finding an empty table where she can sit with her back to the wall. There are a few other patrons scattered around the room, saying nothing but making their displeasure at her presence quite clear in their body language.

Removing her gloves and pulling down the hood of her cloak, Violet settles into her chair, happy to be out of the spring cold. This is her second time coming to Brill, the first being only a week before. Sylvanas has sent her on several small missions in the weeks after her trip to the Scarlet Monastery, mainly with the goal of clearing out the lingering mindless undead from several farms around the Undercity. It’s easy work, as the undead are slow and brittle, but each corpse she cuts down gives her pause when she wonders if she’d known the person it used to be. She’d probably known many of them, or at the very least seen them in passing. It sits heavy in her heart, but she knows that giving them a true death will at least bring them peace.

Someone sits down in the chair across from her, and Violet startles, looking up to find a female blood elf seated on the other side of the small table. She raises an eyebrow, hand sliding to the hilt of her sword under the table. The elf smiles politely, looking around casually before leaning in.

“A raven calls at midnight.”

“The darkness answers in kind,” Violet replies, and the elf relaxes, sliding closer to her but still keeping an inconspicuous distance between them. None of the other patrons seem to have any interest in them, but the elf speaks low enough that only Violet can hear her.

“How’re ye holdin’ up, lass?” The elf asks, and Violet smirks.

“Well enough.” She looks the elf up and down. “That’s a hell of a getup.”

“Aye,” the elf says, grinning. “Kind o’ nice ta be lookin’ so tall, don’t ye think?”

“I’m just wondering what poor mage you conned into enchanting you such an extravagant disguise.” Violet tamps down on her grin, not wanting to appear too friendly with the elf. “And how many pieces he’ll be found in.”

“Never ye mind that,” the elf says, looking around again. “Give me another week and I’ll have a gryphon waitin’ for ye outside the city. The Lord is anxious ta have ye back.”

“I share his sentiment,” Violet says, smile falling. “Will you get a message to him for me?”

“O’ course, lass. What should I be tellin’ him?”

“Tell him Starblade is…tell him she’s dead.”

“He knows, lass.” The elf frowns. “Two of our own go missin’ into thin air, ye bet your arse we’re gonna know how and why.”

“You found her, then?”

“Aye. Gave her a proper ceremony back at the Manor, but her body went back ta Teldrassil.”

Violet nods, swallowing hard, and the elf stands.

“Just a little while longer. We’ll have ye out in no time, Moonflower.”

“Thank you, Redpike.”

“See ya soon.”

With that, the elf is gone, slipping out of the tavern to leave Violet alone at her table, absentmindedly turning her locket over in her fingers. Movement flashes in her peripheral vision and she looks up, finding the door to the tavern filled with the billowing cloak and fierce eyes of Dark Ranger.

“You,” she says, approaching Violet. “The Dark Lady bids you return to the city immediately.”

“What for? She sent me out just this morning.”

“Just get moving,” the Ranger barks, and Violet sighs. She puts a few coins on the table, shooting an apologetic look to the barkeep before following the Ranger out into the street. Once she’s on her horse, Violet nods to the Ranger, who melts into the dim shadow cast by the inn and disappears. Pulling on the reins, Violet guides her horse east, silently bemoaning the lunch she never ate.

—

“You’re quite sure?” Beleron asks, brow knit as he speaks. Thrall nods solemnly.

“I have it on very good authority,” he says, looking at Sylvanas. “I came here to inform you before I meet with Lor’Themar to discuss our options.”

“I suppose it’s a long time coming,” Sylvanas replies, missing the wince from Beleron at her words. “What’s the bounty set at?”

“My source says High King Wrynn put a price of ten thousand gold on his head.” Saurfang says, voice gruff. “Apparently there was an emphasis on dead, rather than alive.”

Sylvanas’s crimson gaze finds Beleron, a trace of worry in her features at his barely-contained whirl of emotions. She remains silent, turning her head when a banshee materializes behind her.

“The girl has returned, as you commanded, my queen.”

“Send her here,” Sylvanas says, and the banshee is gone. “I apologize for the wait, Warchief. Had I known you wanted to inspect her, I would have held off on sending her out until this evening.”

“What is it you have her doing?” Thrall asks, and Sylvanas smirks.

“Tying up some loose ends. She’s a very efficient killer.” She pauses before speaking again. “You know, she was an agent of Ravenholdt before she came to me.”

Saurfang grunts disapprovingly, and Thrall sighs.

“Lord Ravenholdt won’t take kindly to you stealing one of his rogues,” Thrall says, and Saurfang chimes in.

“I would be careful, Lady Windrunner. Rogues are very protective of their own, and there’s likely already a plan in place to break her out of your city.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Sylvanas says, reaching into her desk to retrieve a small metal disk. She rises from her chair, moving to one of the tables covered by a map of the Eastern Kingdoms. “I’ve taken precautions to always know where she is.”

Holding her hand a few feet above the table, Sylvanas makes sure the Warchief and the High Overlord are watching her before unfurling her fingers and dropping the object onto the map just above an area marked as _Arathi Highlands_. It’s a small silver coin, one bearing the seal of Lordaeron, and it bounces off the table only twice before rolling and coming to rest over the small drawing of the Undercity. She smiles, picking up the coin and moving to the other end of the table, once again dropping the coin, but this time over the southern tip of the continent. The coin rolls as if drawn by some invisible force, once again coming to rest over the Undercity.

“Your handiwork, Archmage?” Thrall asks, eyebrows raised. Beleron takes a moment to answer, eyes faraway before he looks up.

“Yes, Warchief. That coin will show the human’s location no matter where on Azeroth she travels.”

Thrall nods in approval, scratching at his chin as he rises to look at the map. There’s a knock on the door, and Sylvanas calls for them to enter. Violet steps into the room, chest heaving from running all the way to the throne room from the stables.

“You sent for me, my lady?” She says, and Sylvanas slips the coin into her bodice, gesturing for Violet to approach her.

“Warchief, I present to you my newest agent. Violet, this is the Warchief, Thrall.”

Violet’s eyes widen as she lays eyes on the two orcs, hastily dropping into a bow.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Warchief,” she says, straightening up. Her brow furrows upon getting a better look at the orc, some spark of recognition in her features at the clear blue color of his eyes.

“This is your agent?” Thrall asks, similar questioning in his expression.

“It is,” Sylvanas says, her keen ranger eyes not missing the change in the two before her. “Is something the matter, Warchief?”

“No,” Thrall says, taking a cautious step forward. “We’ve met before, have we not?”

“I believe we have,” Violet says, scrutinizing his face.

“Thrall?” Saurfang asks, looking between them uncertainly. “How do you know this girl?”

“It was many years ago, and she’s grown since then, but I would not forget her deeds.” Thrall pauses. “When I escaped from Durnholde Keep, I was wounded and lost in the wilderness of Hillsbrad. A young human girl crossed paths with me, and used the Light to heal my wounds as best she could.”

“You were this girl?” Sylvanas asks, and Violet nods.

“I was traveling from Southshore back to Capital City when I became separated from my mentor,” Violet explains, and Thrall nods. “I came across an orc, bleeding and exhausted. I’d sworn to help those in need, so I healed what I could for him and sent him away with my trail rations before my mentor found us.”

“Is this true, Warchief?” Sylvanas asks, sharing a skeptical look with Beleron, who is now quite interested in the conversation.

“Yes, every word.” He speaks to Violet. “I said that day that I would not forget your kindness, and I haven’t. But what led you from the service of the Light to become a member of Ravenholdt?”

“I’ve changed since then,” Violet says, face falling. “The Light no longer speaks to me.”

Thrall is silent for a moment, turning to face Sylvanas.

“You may keep her on as your agent, Sylvanas,” he says. “But know that I allow it only as a service to her, as a gesture of good faith to repay her past actions.”

He turns back to Violet, picking up his hammer as he does.

“You say you’ve changed, and I believe you. Know that I will be keeping a close eye on you and your actions from this day forward.”

“Of course, Warchief,” Violet says, dipping her chin in submission.

“If you’re through with her, Warchief, I will return her to her duties,” Sylvanas says.

“I am,” Thrall says. “For now.”

“Back to your mission, girl,” Sylvanas says, and Violet bows at the waist, shooting a last glance at Thrall before she leaves the study.

“Do not trust her blindly,” Thrall says once the door is closed. “The Light does not forsake its servants without great transgression.”

“I am aware,” Sylvanas says, face darkening as her eyes flick over to the dagger embedded in the map of Northrend. “Is there anything else you wish of me, Warchief?”

“I accomplished what I came for,” Thrall says. “I will send word of my decision once I’ve spoken to Lor’themar. I anticipate his agreement with my plans to match the High King’s bounty coin for coin.”

“Very well,” Sylvanas says, dipping into a shallow bow. “Al diel shala, Warchief.”

“Aka’magosh, Lady Windrunner.”

Once Thrall and Saurfang are gone, Sylvanas lets out a long sigh before turning to Beleron. He’s lost in thought, brow furrowed and hands fisted in his robes.

“You knew this was coming,” she says, coming to stand in front of him. She smooths the collar of his robes, watching him carefully.

“Yes,” he replies, blinking to clear his thoughts and bringing his eyes to meet hers. “I foolishly thought I had more time.”

“None of us can escape death,” Sylvanas says, voice soft. “Not even Kael.”

Beleron closes his eyes, letting out a breath through his nose before opening them again.

“Will you tell Keldra?” Sylvanas asks, stepping closer to him, resting her hands on his chest.

“No, I will not burden her with it,” Beleron says, shaking his head. “But I must go to see him. If nothing else, to tell him…”

Beleron trails off, breath hitching.

“Be at peace,” Sylvanas says quietly, taking his cheek gently in her hand. _“Belono sil’aru, belore’dorei.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah, Beleron and Sylvanas are a thing. [Tyri'el shudders in the distance.]
> 
>  _Belono sil’aru, belore’dorei_ , according to the WoW wiki, means 'shoulder your burdens well, child of the sun'. It's used at the end of the ceremony to appoint a ranger lord of the Farstriders, but I think it fits here, too.


	16. We Leave At First Light

In comparison to the other taverns in the city, The Pointed Hat is by far the least rowdy, and it’s a welcome change of pace for Violet. It’s more of a cafe, really, only frequented by more academic types looking for a good meal and a place to read in peace, so it’s no surprise that it’s exactly where she finds Tyri’el. He’s seated at a table, reading a stack of parchment as he eats, and doesn’t notice her approach until she slams her rucksack onto the floor and sits down with an exhausted huff. He startles, looking up at her and raising an eyebrow at her state of dishevelment.

“Dare I ask?” Tyri’el’s eyes focus on the cut just to the side of her right eye, and she grunts.

“Gnolls,” she says shortly, wiping dirt from her cheek with her shirtsleeve. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Very well,” Tyri’el says, looking her over before going back to his reading. Violet sets something on the table in front of him, and he glances up to find it’s a dusty wine bottle. The label is torn and faded, but readable. “Where’d you find this?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, and Tyri’el nods, checking the integrity of the bottle. It smells heavily of dirt and animal musk, but the deep purple of the wax seal bearing the imprint of an eye is fully intact. Violet produces a small blade from underneath her bracer, holding out her hand until he passes her the bottle. Tyri’el raises his hand to gain the attention of the barkeep, who brings over two glasses without a word. Tyri’el thanks him, watching as Violet breaks the seal with her knife and pours them both generous servings.

“What’s the occasion?” Tyri’el asks, taking the glass from her. Cheeks coloring, Violet glances up at him as she returns the cork into the bottle.

“I robbed you of a drink last month. I was taught to always give back when I take something.”

“That’s an interesting ideal for a rogue to hold,” Tyri’el says, and Violet snorts.

“I wasn’t always a rogue,” she says, frowning into her glass. The dark in her eyes is gone in the next instant, and she sighs. “Besides, I understand Dalaran Noir is hard to come by since they erected the shield.”

“A shame, really,” Tyri’el muses, taking a sip. “The vineyard grows year-round.”

“All the plants do,” Violet says, sniffing her glass before tasting the wine. The familiar flavor forces tears to her eyes and she sets down the glass with a little too much force. Tyri’el sees her wipe at her eyes, his brows knitting in concern. Before he can ask her if she’s all right, she nods in the direction of the stack of parchment on the table. “Who’s Dawnheart?”

“I am,” Tyri’el says, looking down at the discarded envelope addressed to Magister Dawnheart. “Or, I was.”

Violet tilts her head in question, and Tyri’el sighs, finishing his glass and reaching for the bottle to pour himself another.

“Dawnheart is my father’s given name.”

“But you go by Sunfury.” Violet says, and Tyri’el nods.

“My mother’s maiden name.” A small smile tugs at his lips, pushing away the lingering frown. “My niece still uses it, and I haven’t the heart to correct her.”

“That’s all from her?” Violet asks, looking pointedly at the pile of parchment. Tyri’el chuckles.

“She inherited my mother’s gift for words,” he says. “And her mother’s love of gossip.”

Tyri’el sifts through the pages, at least a dozen covered front and back.

“Do you miss her?” Violet asks, pulling off her gloves.

“Yes,” Tyri’el admits. “More so since…”

He looks up at her.

“I wrote her after you and I spoke last month. More than I’ve said to her in years, to be honest.” He holds up the pages. “She’s returned it tenfold.”

“Perhaps I should hit you more often, hmm?” Violet smiles as she speaks, and Tyri’el snorts.

“I’ll pass, thank you,” he says, rubbing absently at his cheek and missing the way her own cheeks color in shame. “You’re much stronger than your stature implies.”

“Lower center of gravity,” Violet says, shrugging. “And I’m not that short. For a human, I’m of perfectly average height.”

“Whatever you say,” Tyri’el says, going back to reading. Violet huffs in annoyance, her demeanor changing as she turns to the door. Slow, lumbering footfalls fill the tavern, and the arcane construct Violet remembers from Beleron’s study ambles over to them.

Tyri’el glances up, eyebrow piqued.

“Archmage Sunfury requires your presence. Please respond promptly,” the construct says, its voice tinny and monotone.

“For what purpose?”

“Inquiry accepted. Response loading.” The whirring of gears becomes apparent from within, the construct pausing for a moment before replying. “Reason given. Because he said so.”

“Did you just get sassed by a robot?” Violet asks, chuckling as she watches the exchange with clear amusement.

“Construct,” Tyri’el corrects, stuffing the letters back into their envelope. “And I believe I did.”

“Please respond promptly,” the construct repeats, arcane core casting a soft pinkish light.

“I heard you the first time, Pyro,” Tyri’el says, putting a handful of coins on the table. “I’m responding.”

“Affirmative.” The construct shifts, turning around in one ratcheting motion and leaving the tavern.

“I suppose this is good evening, then,” Tyri’el says, standing. “Are you out on a mission tonight?”

“No,” Violet says. “Slow night, I guess.”

“Thank you for the wine,” Tyri’el says, and Violet picks up the bottle and hands it to him. “You don’t want more?”

“No,” Violet says, standing and shouldering her rucksack. “I prefer something stronger.”

Tyri’el nods, noting the way her throat strains as she speaks.

“Good evening,” Tyri’el says, and Violet returns the sentiment. They part ways, Tyri’el headed for his uncle’s study, and Violet headed for her own quarters. It takes Tyri’el a few minutes to reach the doorway that leads into his uncle’s home, and he frowns when he sees that it’s not arcanely obscured as it normally is. Once inside, he ascends the stairs and moves down the hallway to the study, but finds it dark and empty. Each room he checks is much the same, and he begins to worry with each empty space he clears without finding his uncle. The last door he checks is his uncle’s bedchambers, seeing a flickering light coming from under the door. He knocks softly, hearing nothing on the other side.

“Come in,” Beleron says from behind the door, his voice tired. Tyri’el obeys, opening the door and slipping into the room. Beleron stands in the near-dark, only a single oil lamp sitting on a table beside a tall, ornate mirror. He’s looking into the mirror, staring at his reflection as if he’s not entirely sure that he’s really seeing himself reflected in the glass. The light casts long shadows across his face, and he looks so aged and exhausted that Tyri’el’s chest twists at the sight.

“Uncle?”

Beleron doesn’t answer, instead reaching out to touch the mirror, ghosting his fingers across the cold glass as he drags them down along his reflection. Tyri’el frowns, shutting the door quietly behind him. The room is freezing, and he moves to the hearth and takes a moment to light it with conjured fire before turning back to the elder elf. Beleron hasn’t moved, his hand still outstretched with his fingertips barely touching the mirror.

“Uncle, what’s going on?”

“I want you to know that everything I did,” Beleron starts, turning slowly to face his nephew, “I did because I thought it best for you.”

“Uncle,” Tyri’el repeats, warning creeping into his voice. “What happened?”

“The Warchief has put a bounty on the head of our prince.”

The air leaves Tyri’el’s lungs in one disbelieving gush, his eyes widening in shock.

“When?” He asks, carding his fingers through his hair as he tries to make sense of his uncle’s words.

“This morning. King Wrynn did the same two days ago.” Beleron’s shoulders sag, and he moves to the fireplace, eyes far away as he stares into the flames.

“Does Lor’themar know?”

Beleron nods.

“The decision was made with his blessing.” The elder elf’s words are bitter, said through a clenched jaw.

“And Rommath?”

Beleron shakes his head.

“I can’t imagine he was pleased. But I doubt he’d voice his feelings on the matter.” Looking over at his nephew, Beleron’s eyes soften as his eyes search Tyri’el’s face. “I leave for Outland at first light.”

“I’m coming with you,” Tyri’el says, and Beleron nods tiredly, looking somewhat relieved.

“Good. I was hoping you’d say as much.”

“She knows you’re going,” Tyri’el says, and Beleron nods. Tyri’el exhales through his nose, searching for something else to say to comfort his uncle, but nothing comes. Finally, he speaks. “I’ll ready my things.”

“Come to the throne room in the morning. I’m sure Sylvanas will want to see us off.” Beleron turns back to the fire, the flames twisting and growing under his gaze. Tyri’el reaches out and puts his hand on his uncle’s shoulder, but the elder elf doesn’t look at him.

“Uncle,” he says, and Beleron looks over, eyes clouded by unshed tears. Tyri’el feels much the same, but his expression stays calm by sheer force of will, knowing that his uncle will only anguish more if he sees his nephew’s distress. So he says nothing, only squeezing Beleron’s shoulder with a short, unspoken statement passing between them before he leaves for his own quarters. His mind races as he walks, the city around him ceasing to exist.

It seems silly to think, and terribly naive in retrospect, but he had always thought of the prince as something steadfast and eternal. Always there, always destined to take his father’s throne. Ever since he was old enough to realize who Kael’thas was, and what he represented, he’s always admired the prince, both as a mage, and as a man. Even when he began to see the Burning Legion’s influence slowly creep over the prince, he still believed there was a reason for it, that Kael’thas had some ultimate plan that would bring about the salvation of his people, what few were left of them.

Now, Tyri’el holds no such illusions. Much as it stings in his chest, he knows that his friend, his prince, has given into evil, even if at the start his intentions were nothing but pure. He’s seen the madness take hold, in many more than just Kael’thas - the lust for power, for revenge - and has seen what it does to good people. The Legion preys on those with nothing to lose and the illusion of everything to gain, and in the end, they always fall. Even those as seemingly invincible as the prince.

Tyri’el is so consumed by this thoughts as he walks that he doesn’t hear his name called repeatedly, only halting his trance-like advance when a hand comes on his shoulder. He turns, eyes sparking with arcane light on reflex, only to fizzle out when he sees who’s touched him.

“Hey, easy,” Violet says, immediately taken aback by the vacant expression in his eyes, and the surge of power around him. “Is everything all right?”

Tyri’el looks at her, contemplating his chances of getting away with a nonchalant lie, but from the way she’s watching him with such keen worry in her eyes, he knows being dishonest would only insult her.

“No,” he admits slowly, swallowing hard. “But…I will be.”

Violet is thoroughly unconvinced, but her hold on him loosens.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” he says, and she frowns.

“For how long?”

“I...I don’t know.”

Something he can swear is genuine fear flashes across her eyes, and she takes a small step back, hand finding her necklace.

“Be careful then, yeah?” Violet says, looking him over like she believes she might never see him again.

“I’ll try,” he says, and she nods, lingering hesitantly beside him before turning and leaving without another word. He watches her for a moment, seeing that she’s headed in the direction of the throne room, and sighs, running a hand through his hair as he makes his way towards his apartment.

Violet wipes at her eyes, clenching her jaw and refusing to let the fear coiling in her stomach rear up and consume her. She can’t quite pinpoint why his words have her so upset, but she can’t quell the dread as it curls icy fingers around her throat. Light, they’re not really even friends, but he’s at the very least kind to her like no one else has been in this accursed place. Somehow, in the course of the next few moments, she convinces herself that he won’t be coming back, that her one lifeline has been cut and she’ll be left alone. It’s bitter in its familiarity, the feeling of having no one but herself to rely on, and it settles in her chest like a lead weight.

“You called for me, my lady?”

Sylvanas looks down at her from where she sits on the throne, halting her conversation with Nathanos as she stands. Violet ascends the dais, eyes cast downward to keep her emotions from showing on her face, rather than from respect for the Queen.

“My study,” Sylvanas says, gesturing with her head for Violet to follow her. The human suspects another mission, and that thought comforts her, knowing that a task will keep her mind busy enough not to wander onto other things she really shouldn’t be thinking about. Once through the hidden door and down the passageway into Sylvanas’s study, the Queen turns to her. “I have another task for you.”

“Anything, my lady.”

Sylvanas smirks, and the door closes of its own accord behind Violet as the Queen settles into the chair behind her desk.

“I’m sending you to Outland.”

“My lady?”

“The Warchief informed me yesterday of a matter he was traveling to Silvermoon to discuss with the Regent Lord,” Sylvanas begins, tenting her fingers as she looks Violet over like a vulture circling its prey. “This morning, he officially put out a bounty on the head of Kael’thas Sunstrider.”

“Your prince?”

“He was my prince. Once he sold his soul to the Legion…well, I’ll just say that I’ve already mourned his death to me.” Her smirk falters for a second, face falling under the shadow of her hood, but the expression of deeper grief is gone in the next moment, replaced with determination. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let one of Wrynn’s lackeys bring him down.”

“That’s my job, then.”

“Smart girl,” Sylvanas says. “You’ll leave in the morning, with Beleron and Tyri’el.”

“My lady?”

“Under no circumstances are you to reveal your true purpose for accompanying them. Your intent is known to only the two of us, and no one else. As far as anyone else is concerned, you’re merely along for the ride as an added precaution. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my lady, but I—”

“Silence,” Sylvanas says, and the room darkens around them. “Kael deserves a quick, painless death, something he won’t get from some band of misfits belonging to either faction. You’ve proven yourself a competent rogue and I intend to use that to my advantage.”

“If I may, my lady,” Violet begins, and Sylvanas quirks an eyebrow in annoyance. “Surely there are sin’dorei capable of something such as this. I—”

“You’ll do as  I say,” Sylvanas says, slamming her palms on the desk as she stands.

“Yes, my lady. Of course,” Violet says, looking down at her feet. Sylvanas comes around the desk, taking Violet’s chin with an iron grip to make the human look up at her.

“Besides,” she says, smirk returning as she appraises Violet. “Rumor has it, Kael has an eye for little blonde human girls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finger guns*
> 
> Also, a note on Dalaran. In-game, it was unreachable and surrounded by a big pinkish-purple shield until WotLK came out. At that point, the Kirin Tor decided to move it to Crystalsong Forest in Northrend both to be within range of Icecrown and Arthas, and to keep an eye on Malygos and the Nexus. Now all that's left of the original location is the shield and the big-ass crater that will kill you if you take the portal (yay for pally bubbles!). So, at this point in the story, it's still inside its fun mage shield.


	17. Through The Dark Portal

Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and jittery from an overabundance of adrenaline, Tyri’el enters the throne room, dressed in traveling clothes with his rucksack slung over his shoulder. He’d spent the last hour agonizing about how to fit all of his inscription supplies into the simple cloth bag, but with dawn fast approaching, he’d given up and decided not to bring any of it. Hefting the pack down onto the first step of the dais, he sits and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Beleron is already there, standing close to Sylvanas as they converse in hushed tones, occasionally glancing down at Tyri’el. He pays them no mind, staring straight ahead with his elbows propped on his knees and his chin in his hands. It’s only when movement catches his attention that he blinks hard to rouse himself from his daze. Violet enters the throne room, looking like she’s headed somewhere, as well. They nod at each other in greeting, and she comes to sit next to him on the steps.

“Where are you off to this morning?” Tyri’el asks her as she sets down her rucksack.

“Same place as you,” she says, not meeting his eyes. “The Dark Lady has ordered me along on your trip to the Outlands.”

“Why?” He asks, and Violet shrugs.

“I do as I’m told.” She can hear Beleron’s voice behind her, hushed but still raised in alarm.

“Absolutely not,” he says, looking from where Violet is sitting next to his nephew to Sylvanas, who sighs through her nose. “I refuse to let her come with us.”

“You have no say in the matter,” Sylvanas says, watching as Beleron runs a hand down his face in frustration.

“I’m not bringing that…his—”

“Hold your tongue,” Sylvanas hisses, silencing him as her eyes flick over to Violet. “You know as well as I that Netherstorm is a dangerous place for you and the boy. I’m sending her with you as an extra measure of protection.”

“We can hold our own.”

“I’m well aware,” Sylvanas says, taking his face gently in her hands. “But I’ll take no chances with your life.”

Beleron sighs, muttering something in Thalassian that Violet assumes to be a term of endearment, and she turns her head slightly to watch them as they talk. She can hear the resignation in his voice as he continues.

“Very well,” he says, turning his head to call to Tyri’el, but Sylvanas stops him and makes him look back at her.

“Come back to me,” she says, stern features turning tender and uncertain for a moment. “Swear it.”

“I swear to you,” Beleron says softly. “I will return.”

She kisses him hard, pulling him closer with a hand fisted in the chest of his robe, and Violet has to fight to suppress a shocked sound as she quickly looks away. Tyri’el notices her motion and looks back, seeing his uncle and the Queen break apart, and snorts softly.

“Did you know?” Violet asks quietly, and he nods.

“I try not to think about it.” He shakes his head, as if to clear away an unwanted thought. “I try very, _very_ hard.”

“On your feet,” Beleron says, and the two stand, turning to face him. “Tyri’el, the portal.”

Tyri’el nods, moving away from the dais as his uncle comes to stand a few feet away from him. They raise their hands, eyes beginning to glow with arcane energy, and through a slow, methodical chant begin to conjure a portal. A bright spot appears in the space between them, accompanied by a sound Violet can only liken to the faraway ripping of cloth. Soon, the light between them grows into a circle, and a barren wasteland becomes visible on the other side of the shimmering disk. With the portal fully solidified, Beleron and Tyri’el drop their hands, moving their arms and shoulders as if they’d just lifted something incredibly heavy. Tyri’el shoulders his pack, and the other two do the same.

“Do not fail me,” Sylvanas says, eyes trained on Violet, and the human nods, swallowing hard at the lump of fear that forms in her throat. The Queen then looks to the others. “Al diel shala.”

The elves return the sentiment, and Tyri’el gestures to the portal.

“After you,” he says, and Violet hesitates. He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve traveled by portal before, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Violet says, “though I’m not overly fond of it.”

She takes a step forward, holding her breath and closing her eyes as she steps through the portal. Energy pricks at her skin, and after a moment of ear-splitting pressure, she emerges into the dry, cracked landscape of a completely different place. Lightning strikes in the distance, the barren orange-brown of the rocks around her making a stark contrast against the dark, stormy sky above. Before her sits an encampment of sorts, with tents and munitions scattered before a rise carved out of the stone of the surrounding hillside. In the center of the rise sits a stone gateway, carved into the visage of two cloaked figures on either side. A stone likeness of a dragon peers over the top, seeming to guard the gate. Shifting uncomfortably, Violet bumps into Tyri’el as he emerges from the portal, followed by Beleron. The portal snaps closed after them, leaving nothing but a few lingering sparkles in the empty space behind them.

“Light,” she breathes, looking up at the gateway, eyes wide in childlike wonder. “I never thought I’d find myself here.”

“It’s much less impressive on this side,” Tyri’el muses, and Violet looks over at him in question.

“Took you long enough,” a new voice says, and they turn to look at who spoke. It’s a high elf, his long black hair rustling in the stale breeze. There’s something about him that Violet can’t quite name, something that makes her think he’s not really an elf at all. He quirks an eyebrow at her, looking to Beleron. “Who’s she? I’m not carrying her.”

“I’m in no mood, Mavros,” Beleron says, and the other elf holds up his hands in mock innocence.

“As you wish, your surly exaltedness,” he says, glowing eyes returning to rest on Violet. “But I’m still not carrying her.”

“We’ll manage just fine without you,” Tyri’el says, rolling his eyes and making for the ramp that leads up to the portal. Violet says close behind him, eyeing the dark-haired elf as he and Beleron follow them until they’re all standing before the swirling green portal that shows a vast starry sky on the other side.

“What happens now?” Violet asks, craning her neck to see the stone dragon still peeking down at them.

“We cross over,” Tyri’el says, and Beleron mumbles something under his breath as he steps into the portal without hesitation.

“Just like that?” She looks over at Tyri’el, who nods, considerably less impressed than she is. She sighs, whispering to herself. “Here goes nothing.”

Violet takes the final step forward, her skin prickling as she enters the portal, and the air around her changes. The dry desert air of the Blasted Lands fades away, replaced by a heat that surrounds her whole being and goes skin deep, almost like a fever living in the air itself. She takes in a deep breath through her nose, her senses filling with the scent of rust and stone that floats to her on the stale breeze. A few moments later, she slowly opens her eyes, everything she sees painted a dark, dusty red. The portal is much larger on this side, the great steps leading up to it stretching out hundreds of yards on each side of her as she stands, awestruck by everything her gaze touches. Tyri’el appears beside her, unfazed by his journey.

“It’s…” Violet begins, trying to find words for what she sees, “it’s so…red.”

“It is,” Tyri’el says, chuckling. “But that’s not the best part.”

He points upwards, and Violet looks up to the sky, her eyes growing wider at what she beholds. The dark, starry night is lit up by streams of red and orange light, and a greenish-yellow streak cuts across the whole of the sky, flowing past three planets of varying sizes, each drifting through the sky on their own orbits. A sun shines far in the distance, almost twinkling in the few seconds Violet can bear to look at it directly.

“Welcome to hell,” Mavros says, and Beleron lets out an exasperated sigh next to him. “All right, all right.”

In a swirl of color and a plume of mist, the elf transforms into a massive drake, his ebon scales almost luminescent and shining with crackles of lightning that flare across his hide. He chuckles when Violet staggers backwards, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest.

“That will never get old,” he says, words clearly spoken though his mouth doesn’t move. “Shame she didn’t scream.”

“What—” Violet begins, but Tyri’el holds up a hand.

“Don’t. It only feeds his ego.”

“But that’s a black dragon,” Violet says, lowering her voice as she speaks.

“Netherwing dragon,” Tyri’el corrects, and Violet quirks an eyebrow. “Technically speaking, they used to be black dragons, but were altered by the magical cataclysm that destroyed Draenor.”

“Still,” Violet replies, eyeing the drake warily. Mavros smirks at her, likely having heard the entire exchange.

“He’s harmless,” Tyri’el says. “Annoying, but harmless.”

“Tell that to the five hundred Dragonmaw I—”

“Fought off with your bare claws. Yes, I know,” Tyri’el says, rolling his eyes. He gestures to the massive staircase before them. “Come with me. We need to procure windriders for our flight to Falcon Watch.”

“Flight?” Violet asks, looking from the drake to Tyri’el as she follows him. “I thought we were traveling on foot.”

“Too dangerous,” Tyri’el says, shaking his head and looking out over the reddened landscape beyond the great gate. Violet follows his line of vision and stops short. In the valley below, massive metal structures litter the landscape, all glowing with what is unmistakably fel energy. Though, what has Violet truly terrified as she looks on in awe is the assortment of horrifying creatures that populate the space. Towering constructs of dark rock and bright felfire, vaguely canine creatures with far too many teeth, and feminine figures with dark purpled skin and multiple sets of sword-wielding arms. Tyri’el stops and looks back at her. “Servants of the Burning Legion.”

“Demons,” Violet says, skin crawling at the sight of the creatures who all mill about with frightening sentience.

“Hurry and find Vlagga,” Beleron says, fastening his pack to the saddle across Mavros’s back. “Time is of the essence.”

Violet stays close to Tyri’el as they move down the steps, looking over her shoulder when they cross into a part of the base of the gate clearly marked with the red banners of the Horde. On the other side of the steps, the blue and gold of the Alliance encampment is visible, and beyond that, the bright rippling of a portal. Through the arcane doorway sits the skyline of a city with bright white walls bordering the sea, and Violet’s steps falter at the sight of it. Her chest wrenches and for a moment, she seriously considers running from the Horde encampment and leaping through the portal without looking back. Behind her, Tyri’el calls her name, and she turns back to him, swallowing the tears that rise up from the heavy feeling in her gut.

“We’re in luck,” Tyri’el says, noting the change in her demeanor as she approaches him. “There’s two windriders left, and Vlagga is kind enough to let us take them.”

He nods to the orc next to him, who looks surprised to see the human. She looks sideways at Tyri’el.

“You’re telling me the Dark Lady has a human working for her?”

“Yes,” Tyri’el says, sighing softly. “I’m very sorry, but I really don’t have time for a proper explanation.”

Vlagga grunts, walking away from them and towards a set of perches that are currently occupied by two creatures with the body of a lion, the wings of a bat, and a tail that looks like it was plucked off a scorpid.

“I trust you’ve had flight training?” Tyri’el asks, and Violet’s cheeks color. Tyri’el frowns. “You’ve flown before, haven’t you?”

“Ridden, yes. Flown…no.” Violet says it sheepishly, and Tyri’el looks at her in disbelief before calling to Vlagga that they’ll only be needing one windrider saddled up. The orc grumbles to herself, whistling at one of the beasts, and it hops down from its perch with distinctly feline grace.

“You’ll ride with me, then,” Tyri’el says, accepting the reins from Vlagga. “I don’t see another way around it.”

The windrider rubs against Tyri’el’s leg, nearly knocking him over, and he chuckles, scratching the beast behind the ear. It notices Violet and its ears flatten back against its head, razored teeth bared as it lets out a low growl.

“Easy, silly beast,” Vlagga says, and the windrider eases up, though still keeps its keen eyes trained on Violet. “Afraid she’s not used to seeing a human that doesn’t want to do her master harm.”

“It’s quite all right,” Violet says, holding up her hands to show she means the creature no harm.

“We’re waiting,” Mavros calls, and they look to see Beleron astride the drake just outside the border of the Horde encampment.

“Send her back in good time,” Vlagga says, patting the windrider’s haunch a few times.

“We will,” Tyri’el says, fastening his knapsack to one side of the harness, and Violet’s to the other to even out the weight. He pulls on the reins and the windrider stands tall, enough so that he can easily step up and into the saddle. Violet stands by, looking over the whole setup with some hesitation, and Tyri’el looks back to her expectantly. “Well?”

Violet nods, taking a steadying breath as she approaches the creature, and eases herself into the saddle in front of him, both hands grasping the saddle horn so hard her knuckles are white beneath her gloves. The windrider shifts impatiently, and Tyri’el adjusts the reins to take one in each hand.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she says quietly, and he snaps the reins, spurring the creature to push off from the ground to take flight. The rush of scenery is too much for Violet and she squeezes her eyes shut until she feels their angle even out. She opens one eye first, then the other, left speechless by the landscape around them. Far below, the demons take notice of their presence but make no indication of wanting to bring them down.

“Don’t blame me,” Mavros says from somewhere near them. “It’s not my fault she doesn’t know how to fly one of those things.”

Behind her, Tyri’el snorts, but Violet is too transfixed with the land below to notice. She pulls up her scarf to cover her mouth and nose as the acrid air stings her throat, but her eyes are wide as they fly. The landscape is unlike anything she’s ever seen before - desolate and void of any plant life, and the whole of it hums with something she suspects is lingering arcane energy.

Something stirs far ahead of them, a dark, towering figure that spews smoke as it ambles across the flat plain with hard, thundering footfalls. Tyri’el takes notice of it, too, guiding the windrider to widen the gap between them and the construct. As they grow nearer, Violet can see that it’s definitely a machine, the dark metal it’s made of reflecting the sky’s cosmic light as it continues on its way without regard to anything in its path. It burns at the core with a bright green fire, reminding Violet of the arcane core of Beleron’s construct back in the Undercity.

“Another creation of the Burning Legion?” Violet asks, her words almost cut off by a haunting wail let out by the massive construct as they pass it, flying parallel to the thing but several hundred feet higher. The windrider startles, and Tyri’el pulls on the reins to bring it back under control.

“It’s called a fel reaver,” he says when he finds his voice. “They’re powered by the same fel energies that the other Legion creations run on, but on a much larger scale. They’re deadly within three hundred yards if you’re not absolutely steeled to their blows.”

“What purpose do they serve?”

“Destruction.” Tyri’el frowns, watching the fel reaver until it’s out of his line of sight. “The Legion draws power from chaos and terror, that monstrosity being a prime example.”

“It must be impossible to bring down,” Violet says, turning her head for one last look at the shambling machine before it disappears into the dusty air behind them.

“Nearly,” Tyri’el says, his voice thick with disgust. “The only saving grace they possess is the cry you just heard. The sound carries for miles, so at least you have enough warning to flee before it’s too late.”

“Light,” Violet says, falling silent as the metallic cry echoes again from behind them. She feels Tyri’el shudder at the sound, gripping the saddle horn tighter as the windrider lets out a snarled roar in response.

It’s nearly impossible to tell the time of day from the alien sky above them, but it feels like hours pass in relative silence before Tyri’el speaks.

“Finally,” he whispers under his breath, and Violet looks up to see the murky outline of a spire in the distance, reaching up into the sky from atop a high cliff that looms over the valley below. As they approach, more buildings come into view, arranged into a small settlement atop what is now clearly a cliff with multiple tiers. The dust in the air clears somewhat as they draw nearer, and the vibrant golds and whites of the architecture stand out against the dull red of the surrounding hills. Tyri’el pulls on the reins, guiding the wind rider in a wide circle around the settlement before beginning their descent onto one of the more open areas of one of the tiers. They land fairly smoothly, Violet’s legs wobbling as she stands and dismounts.

“You’ll get used to the planet's gravity soon enough,” Tyri’el says, climbing down from the saddle easily. 

“I hope so,” Violet says, leaning on one of the nearby fence posts to steady herself. Mavros lands near them, and Beleron dismounts, unfastening his pack in silence. Once the pack is freed, Mavros disappears in a puff of mist, his elf form emerging to brush the rust red dust from his clothes with an annoyed huff.

“I’m going to have a word with Venn’ren,” Beleron says to Tyri’el, moving along the path that winds through the encampment and up towards the spire with Mavros following after. Tyri’el unfastens their packs, handing Violet hers and grabbing the windrider’s reins to keep it from wandering away. He tucks a few coins into the small pouch attached to the saddle, and commands the windrider to stand.

“I’ll take care of that for you, Margrave Dawnheart,” a young elf with silver hair says, taking the reins from him. She smiles shyly, not even seeming to notice Violet’s presence.

“Thank you, Innalia,” Tyri’el says with a warm smile, and the elf bows at the waist, leading the beast away and up the path.

“Margrave?” Violet asks, looking from the retreating elf to Tyri’el.

“An old title,” Tyri’el says, shaking his head. “Not everyone knows I prefer not to be called by my father’s name.”

“But you’re nobility.”

“I was,” he says, bitterness seeping into his voice. “There isn’t much left to rule now.”

“You have some nerve showing your face around here again,” someone says, and the two turn to look at them. It’s an elf about Tyri’el’s age, his raven hair cut close to his head. He has his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. “I thought I made it very clear how I felt about you.”

“You did,” Tyri’el says, voice even as he observes the other elf. “I recall you threatened me, as well.”

“After you stole a hundred gold from me.”

“It’s not stealing if you keep falling for it,” Tyri’el replies, shrugging. “You’ve always been terrible at Hearthstone.”

“You cheated,” the elf says, smirk starting to show through his hard glare.

“I maintain my innocence.”

The dark-haired elf snorts, posture relaxing. They glare at each other for a moment longer before they’re both smiling and reaching out to take each other’s forearms.

“It’s been too long, my friend.”

Violet watches the exchange with some trepidation that quickly turns to confusion as the two elves embrace each other with a half hug. The dark-haired elf spots Violet, blinking in disbelief before a smug grin overcomes him and he steps towards her.

“And who are you?” He asks, looking her up and down in a way that makes her immediately want to strike him.

“Hathir…” Tyri’el begins, warning in his voice.

“What?” The other elf says, looking over his shoulder and shrugging. “Can’t I say hello?”

“You never just say hello,” Tyri’el says, meeting Violet’s questioning gaze with a sigh. “This unfortunate excuse for a mage is Hathir Goldenshard. My…best friend.”

“Your _only_ friend,” Hathir corrects, returning his focus to Violet with a dazzling smile. “Now, who’d you piss off to get stuck with this one, sweetheart?”

The phrase comes out strange in his already accented Common, as if he thinks the human terms might somehow impress her. He extends his hand, and Violet extends her own and shakes his hesitantly, only to have him bring her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

“For Belore’s sake, Hathir,” Tyri’el says, running his hand down his face in exasperation. Violet pulls her hand away, cheeks red as she shifts uncomfortably.

“Really, though,” Hathir says, ignoring Tyri’el. “Who are you?”

“Her name is Violet,” Tyri’el says before she has a chance to speak. “And she’s far too smart to fall for any of your games.”

“Ah, but I do enjoy a challenge,” Hathir says, winking at Violet, who looks sideways at Tyri’el with a silent plea for help. He shrugs from behind Hathir, mouthing a silent apology to her. “Come along, sweetheart. I’m much better company than Sparkles here.”

“Sparkles?” Violet asks, unable to contain a giggle at the name.

“Don’t,” Tyri’el says, more to Hathir than to her. Hathir’s grin widens.

“Oh, that’s a wonderful story,” he begins, mischief glinting in his eyes. “I’d love to tell it to you over a glass of wine, really I would, but we’ve all but run out.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Tyri’el says. “Especially with you in full-time residence.”

“The whole place is running short on supplies,” Hathir says, smile fading. “We haven’t had a delivery from Thrallmar in over a month.”

“Why?”

“Fel orcs,” Hathir says, disdain clear in his voice. “They’ve raided every caravan sent to us before it gets here, and slaughtered anyone traveling with it. Nazgrel won’t send another until we can guarantee it will get here safely.”

Hathir sighs, looking up at the higher tiers.

“We’re nearly out of food, and anything I conjure only sates our hunger without giving us strength. Everyone is too weak to be of any use against a raiding party.” He looks back to Tyri’el. “Nessa’s doing the best she can to heal injuries, but without food and medicine, there’s only so much to be done when someone falls ill.”

“What about Cenarion Post? Surely they’d send what they could if they learned of the situation here.” Tyri’el looks off to the west as he speaks, but Hathir shakes his head.

“The Legion has fel reavers patrolling the whole span from here to the Post. I suspect they’re trying to starve us out so they can capture the settlement once we’re all wasted away.” Hathir sighs, running his hand through his short hair. “Anyone we’ve sent out for help hasn’t returned.”

“Can’t you just summon a portal to bring a caravan through?” Violet asks, but Tyri’el shakes his head.

“Portals take a large amount of strength and energy to open, especially one that size. If no one here has eaten anything but conjured food for weeks, there’s no way they’d be able to open a portal to somewhere as far away as Thrallmar.”

“Then you can open one,” Violet tells him, and he shakes his head again. “Why not?”

“It’s really not that simple,” Tyri’el says. “For me to—”

“They’re starving, Tyri’el,” Violet says, looking up towards the encampment. From where she stands, there’s at least a dozen elves that she can see, all of them looking drained and weak as they go about their duties. Even the hawkstriders and dragonhawks she can see tethered in various places seem lethargic. She looks back to Tyri’el. “We’ll do it.”

“What?” Tyri’el and Hathir ask in unison.

“We’ll go to this Thrallmar and bring back supplies.”

“Violet…”

“Who’s in charge here?” She asks, turning to address Hathir. “I want to speak with them.”

“Captain Venn’ren,” Hathir says, nodding towards the spire on the top tier. “But—”

“Come on,” Violet says, grabbing Tyri’el by the arm as she moves up the path. He begins to speak, but she stops and cuts him off. “They’re your people, Tyri’el. You can’t just leave them here to starve to death.”

“I wasn’t about to protest,” he says, removing her hand from his arm and speaking to Hathir. “Go find Nessa. We’ll need her skills if we’re headed for a fight.”

“Here,” Violet says, setting down her pack and rifling through it to produce a cloth-wrapped bundle. “Give these to someone who really needs them.”

Hathir takes the bundle, unwrapping it just enough to see that it’s at least a week’s worth of trail rations. Before he can respond, Tyri’el and Violet are gone, taking long strides towards the top tier without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fel reavers. *shudders* 
> 
> Ten years (and fifty levels) later, that sound still gives me the heebie-jeebies and a half second of existential dread. Whenever I'm in Hellfire, I un-equip my weapon and punch them dead. Because revenge.
> 
> And regarding portals, it's not nearly as easy in my universe as it is in-game. It's a lot of work to open and maintain portals, so people just do the old-fashioned thing and walk places. Short-range teleporting is fairly simple, but because it's usually a long distance with multiple people in tow, portals are used much less frequently.
> 
> Remember, reviews feed my muse ;)


	18. Thrallmar

“This is far more than we have any right to ask of you, Margrave,” Captain Venn’ren says, looking from Tyri’el to Beleron. “And of you, Praetor Sunfury.”

“It is our duty,” Beleron replies, stuffing several empty bags into one of Mavros’s larger saddle bags. The drake sighs, but says nothing. “I can’t in all good conscience leave you and the others here in need when there’s something to be done about it.”

“Give this to Ysiel when you arrive,” Venn’ren says, handing a sealed envelope to Beleron, who stows it in one of the many pockets in his robes. “It explains our situation and the severity of our need. I can only hope she will be receptive of my pleas.”

“Have faith, Venn’ren,” Beleron says. “The Cenarion Circle is well-known for their empathy for those who are suffering. They would not withhold something as vital as medicine at a time like this.”

“Be careful, uncle,” Tyri’el says, reaching out to Beleron. “Hathir says the Legion has fel reavers patrolling the road from here to Zangarmarsh.”

“Hathir says a lot of things,” Beleron says, smiling despite the worry in his eyes. “It’s you who needs to be careful.”

“We will be. Nessa is coming with us in case anyone gets injured.”

“There’s no chance I can dissuade you from you plan, is there?” Beleron asks, and Tyri’el smiles.

“No, there isn’t.”

“I figured as much,” Beleron says on a sigh. He claps his hand on Tyri’el’s shoulder. “You _are_ a Sunfury, after all.”

Behind him, Mavros snorts, muttering something about mortals under his breath. Beleron waves his hand to shush the drake, casting a hard glare at Violet, though he says nothing. She shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, averting her eyes until he turns away to climb up into the saddle.

“Ranger Captain,” he says, nodding to Venn’ren in parting. Venn’ren snaps into a salute, his fist coming to rest over his heart. Mavros spreads his wings, stirring up whirlwinds of dust as he takes flight, and the three watch them as they fade into the red haze of the horizon.

“You here not five minutes and you’ve already volunteered me for a suicide mission,” a feminine voice says, and Tyri’el turns with a guilty smile. Hathir strolls up the path, dressed now in traveling clothes, a female elf at his side. Her long, loosely-curled hair is raven black like his, and the similarity of their facial features makes it easy to see that they’re siblings. She’s wearing full platemail armor, a golden warhammer sheathed across her back. “Still, it’s good to see you, Tyri’el.”

“Likewise,” Tyri’el says, smiling at her. The elf’s attention moves to Violet, and she quirks an eyebrow.

“Why am I not surprised you’d get yourself mixed up with humans?” She asks, melodic voice disdainful. Her arms cross over her chest, the metal of her armor clinking together as she does. “Care to explain?”

“This is Violet,” Tyri’el begins, gesturing to her. “She’s recently come into service of the Dark Lady.”

“A traitor to the Alliance, then,” the elf says, followed by a short sound of disgust. Violet bristles at that, forcing away her anger and replacing it with a polite, if not contrived, smile.

“You’ll have to forgive my sister,” Hathir says, looking sideways at her before turning his attention to Violet. “She’s always been threatened by anyone prettier than her.”

Tyri’el rolls his eyes as Hathir winks at Violet, and his sister smacks the back of his head with a gauntleted hand. He yelps, rubbing his head and pouting.

“This is Aeonessa, Hathir’s older sister. She’s so graciously agreed to accompany us today to offer her skills as a—”

“Paladin,” Violet says, the three syllables chock full of bitterness. Aeonessa makes a sound from the back of her throat, a hum of amusement at Violet’s sudden change of demeanor.

“As…interesting as this is,” Venn’ren begins, looking between the members of the group, “it would be best if you set out for Thrallmar presently.”

“Of course, Ranger Captain,” Aeonessa says.

“Nazgrel will be loath to send out another shipment of supplies, but it’s my hope he’ll feel more at ease with you four protecting his men.”

“He’ll see reason,” Tyri’el says. “Those supplies will get here safely, I swear it to you.”

“For all our sakes, I hope you’re right.” Venn’ren sighs. “I can’t offer you any hawkstriders, I’m afraid. They’re all too weak to risk such a long journey.”

“We’ll make do without, sir,” Aeonessa says, and the rest nod in agreement.

“Very well. Belore keep you.” He salutes again, hand over his heart, and nods to Tyri’el before returning into the spire behind them. Tyri’el sucks in a breath, looking to Hathir.

“Shall we?”

Hathir nods, and they move to stand across from each other, hands raised as magic swirls around them. This portal takes longer to form than the one Tyri’el and Beleron summoned earlier, given Hathir’s weakened state, but soon a settlement is visible on the other side. Orcs mill about, and Violet swallows hard as the mages fully manifest the portal and cease their incantation. Hathir sways on his feet and Aeonessa reaches out to steady him, hands glowing with golden light where they grip his shoulders. Violet finds herself unable to look away from them, seeing strength return to Hathir from his sister’s blessing, and her eyes only leave them when Aeonessa looks up at her. The elf says nothing, lips pursing into a thin line.

Tyri’el looks a little worse for wear after the spell as well, and Aeonessa moves to put her hands on his shoulders, bestowing the same Light-borne gift onto him. He thanks her quietly, cheeks pinking slightly, and unsheathes his staff to use it as a walking stick.

“Ladies first,” Hathir says, gesturing to the portal. Aeonessa rolls her eyes, stepping through the portal without another word. Violet hesitates, stepping through after her. As she emerges onto the other side, a wave of nausea hits her, and she stumbles on weak legs. A strong pair of hands grip at her shoulders, and she looks up to see Aeonessa looking at her with what she can swear is worry.

“Teleportation sickness,” she says, helping Violet to sit on the dusty ground. “Put your head between your knees.”

Violet obeys, leaning forward as she tries to tame her stomach. The portal snaps closed behind them, and Tyri’el kneels next to Violet, putting his hand on her arm to gain her attention. She looks at him sideways, head spinning.

“I’m fine,” she says in anticipation of his question. Tyri’el looks up at Aeonessa who nods.

“I’ll sit with her. You two go deal with Nazgrel.”

“You’re sure?” He asks, looking back at Violet, who now has her eyes squeezed shut.

“Go,” Violet says, and a soft ‘hmph’ is Tyri’el’s only response as he stands and beckons for Hathir to follow him into the large building they emerged in front of. The settlement is mainly orcs, but members of other Horde races are present as well, all eyes now drawn to the distressed human. Aeonessa sees this and pulls Violet’s hood up over her head, helping to hide her identity from onlookers.

“Deep breaths,” she says softly, one hand coming to rest on the back of Violet’s head, the other settling just over her heart. She closes her eyes, hands beginning to glow golden, the warmth of the Light spreading through Violet’s body. The sensation is achingly familiar, and Violet has to bite her lip to keep her tears at bay. The Light wraps around her like a gentle hug, chasing away the nausea and leaving her with a sense of peace as Aeonessa’s hands dim. “Better?”

“Much,” Violet says, sitting up slowly to find the world around her stays firmly in place as she lifts her head. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Aeonessa says with a small smile. Violet starts to stand, but the elf keeps her seated, despite her grunted protest. “Stay down for a moment. Two long-range portals in one day is rough if you’re not used to it.”

“Three, actually,” Violet says, and Aeonessa nods.

Inside the winding halls of the large building, Hathir and Tyri’el walk side-by-side in the glow cast by the torches on the walls. They pass others and exchange short pleasantries with those they know, and as soon as they’re alone in the hall, Hathir pulls on Tyri’el’s cloak to halt him.

“I have to know,” he starts, mischievous grin growing as he speaks. “You’re, uh, you know…”

“I’m what?” Tyri’el asks, quirking an eyebrow at his friend.

“You _know_. With Violet?”

“What? No!” Tyri’el says, pulling out of his grasp, blush spreading all the way to the tips of his ears.

“But you want to, right?” Hathir wiggles his eyebrows, grinning wickedly.

“I’m not…I’m not having this conversation,” Tyri’el replies, stomping off.

“You _do_ , don’t you?” Hathir says, hurrying after him. “Don’t lie to me, Sparkles.”

“Hathir,” Tyri’el warns through a set jaw as he casts a hard glare at him, and the other elf holds his hands up in mock resignation.

“Fine, fine. So, then you won’t mind if I—”

“Go ahead,” Tyri’el says, waving his hand dismissively as they start to walk again. “I told you, she’s too clever to fall for one of your asinine schemes.”

“And I told you I love a challenge.”

Tyri’el lets out an irritated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. They come around a corner, entering into the main hall of the building. It’s a large room lit by several braziers, an animal skin covering the stone floor underneath a large table covered in a map of Hellfire Peninsula. The occupants of the room look up as the elves enter, ceasing their conversation over small metal pieces spread out over the map.

“Margrave Dawnheart,” the blood elf on the other side of the table begins, eyebrows raised. “I wasn’t told to expect you.”

“Forgive the unannounced visit, Magister,” Tyri’el begins, bowing at the waist. “I’ve come to speak with Nazgrel.”

“Then speak,” the orc says, folding his arms over his chest.

“I’ve just come from Falcon Watch, where they’re in dire need of supplies at the moment.”

“I’m aware,” Nazgrel says. “I’ve already lost nearly a dozen good fighters to the fel orc raids, and a fair amount of supplies.”

“I’ve brought a group with me to escort a new caravan, sir. We can assure the safety of your men and the supplies—”

“I’m not risking it, Margrave. I need every fighter I have to stay in Thrallmar. The Legion portals to the north are spitting out more and more demons, and they’re getting bolder.”

“Sir, the people of Falcon Watch are starving,” Tyri’el says, stepping forward and straightening his posture. “They have no medicine, and are terribly vulnerable to a Legion attack themselves. They need your help.”

“I sympathize for the residents of Falcon Watch, but I have to look out for my people first.”

“Are you really so resigned to let these people die, Nazgrel? Is that what the Warchief would have you do?”

“Watch your tone, Margrave,” Nazgrel says, eyes narrowing under his wolf’s head mask. “You may be a noble in Quel’Thalas, but here, you’re just another member of the Horde.”

“As are the people of Falcon Watch,” Tyri’el says, the fires in the braziers snapping and casting long shadows across the room. “Sir, I can personally assure the safety of the men you send with the supplies. We’ll escort them the whole way, and fend off any attacks that may befall us.”

“Sir, if I may,” Magister Bloodhawk says, and Nazgrel glances over at him. “I can vouch for Margrave Dawnheart’s integrity, and that of Magister Goldenshard. I believe anyone you send with them will be in very good hands.”

Nazgrel grunts, looking back to Tyri’el.

“Very well. You’ll get two of my fighters and one wagon. It’s all we can spare.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tyri’el says, and the orc nods. “It is greatly appreciated.”

“I will go write a requisition for the provisioner,” he says, leaving the room through a side door without another word.

“Thank you, Perron,” Tyri’el says, extending his hand in thanks. The other elf takes it, smiling as he does.

“I do what I can,” he says, nodding in acknowledgment to Hathir. “All these years later, I still haven’t repaid you for letting me copy your arcane theory assignments.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tyri’el says, chuckling. “We’ll be outside when Nazgrel is finished with his order.”

“I’ll be sure you get it,” he says. “Al diel shala.”

Tyri’el and Hathir return the sentiment, leaving the hall and moving towards the entrance.

“You never let me cheat off your assignments,” Hathir says, pouting.

“Because you snuck into my desk and copied them anyway,” Tyri’el says, and Hathir snorts. They emerge from the building, finding Aeonessa helping Violet to her feet. The human’s color is much better, and she can stand on her own without trouble.

“Well?” Aeonessa asks as the two approach them. “Was he in a generous mood?”

“No, but Perron sweet-talked him into giving us a wagon with two of his men,” Tyri’el says, looking at Violet. “Feeling better?”

“Yes,” Violet says, nodding as she brushes the rust red dust from her clothing.

“I should have warned you about teleportation sickness,” he replies, and she shakes her head.

“No, I’ve always been prone to it. No harm done.”

Tyri’el begins to reply, but a gruff voice cuts him off.

“What is that human doing in my camp?”

The group turns, finding Nazgrel quickly approaching them, drawing his battleaxe from its sheath as he walks. His eyes are on Violet, and the whole settlement seems to stop and turn their attention to him.

“I’m an agent of th—,” Violet begins, but Nazgrel cuts her off.

“I have no interest in your excuses, human,” he says, raising his axe.

“Sir, I can explain,” Tyri’el says, but the orc is already swinging his axe, the blade coming down to clash with Violet’s sword just inches from her face. She twists out of his reach and jumps away, metal screeching against metal as their weapons part.

“Please, I mean you no harm,” she says, quickly sheathing her sword and holding up her hands to show she has no ill intent. Her eyes are wide, darting around the settlement to the dozens of Horde soldiers now paying very close attention to her, and some of them take steps towards her with hands moving to their weapons.

“Get out,” Nazgrel growls, momentarily taken aback by her agility. “Your kind are not welcome here.”

“Come on,” Tyri’el says, moving to Violet and taking her by the arm. He looks over at Hathir and Aeonessa. “Load the wagon and meet us outside the walls.”

With that, he pulls Violet with him, not looking back as he hurries toward the gate. She moves beside him, skin prickling where his hand is wrapped around her bicep. They reach the gate, moving past it and outside the walls a few hundred feet before Tyri’el releases her. Violet rubs at her arm where he’d gripped her, watching him run a hand through his hair in exasperation as he paces back and forth in a tight line.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, and he stops in his tracks, looking over at her.

“What for? You did nothing wrong.”

“It seems my being human is wrong to a lot of people,” she says, shoulders sagging.

“It’s not wrong,” Tyri’el says, beginning his pacing again. “People are just so…they can’t…”

He trails off, forgoing words for a frustrated grunt as he throws his hands up. He stops, looking at her in earnest.

“I should be the one apologizing. I got you into this mess and—”

“Tyri’el,” Violet says, closing the distance between them. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it only once more. I don’t blame you for what happened. You saved my life.”

“But I—”

“Stop,” she says, taking his shoulders and shaking him gently. Her hands tingle even through the leather of her gloves, but she keeps her hold on him, looking him dead in the eye. “You are not responsible for the bigotry of others.”

Tyri’el holds her gaze for a moment, finally looking down and away as he lets out the breath he’s been holding.

“You’re right,” he says, closing his eyes and shaking his head. His muscles feel tense despite his relaxed posture, and there’s a low thrum of energy swirling within him above the adrenaline in his veins. “You’re wise for someone your age.”

Violet snorts.

“I don’t know about that. I’m the one who got myself gored by a troll.” She offers him a reassuring smile, one he readily returns.

“We’re ready,” Hathir says, approaching them. He looks between the two of them, raising an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Tyri’el says, glaring back at him, and Violet releases her hold on his shoulders. A wagon rumbles along the dusty ground, pulled by two orcs who do not look pleased with their current assignment. Aeonessa walks with them, eyeing Violet and Tyri’el with an unreadable expression in her eyes, though her face betrays no emotions. The orcs, however, are very easy to read. They eye Violet with contempt, but say nothing.

“We should reach Falcon Watch by nightfall,” Aeonessa says, looking to the western horizon. “That is, if we don’t have any unforeseen delays.”

The group nods, everyone settling into a comfortable walking pace, and they begin their long trek in relative silence, only the low, dry howling of the stale wind to keep them company.


	19. Friend Among Foes

Once Thrallmar has faded away into the distance behind them, the only way the group can tell they’re making any progress is by the passing of various land features. Rock formations come and go, and the patterns of cracks in the ground around them change, but the celestial bodies in the sky above stay exactly where they had been when they’d first started out.

Violet spearheads the procession, staying a hundred feet in front of the wagon with her keen eyes trained on the horizon for any sign of an ambush, though so far it’s been mostly boars and vultures that have caught her attention. She can hear the rest of the group chatting casually behind her, in what she assumes to be Orcish, and it sounds like they’re getting along pretty well without her. Sighing quietly, she resists the urge to glance back at them and sets her sights on the ridge just coming into view on the western horizon.

“Violet,” Tyri’el calls, and she stops to look back at him. The wagon has stopped, guided off the road a ways, and the orcs are digging in the cargo to pass out food of some kind. Her stomach growls to remind her she hasn’t eaten since before departing from the Undercity, and she hurriedly returns to the group. One of the orcs holds out a piece of dried meat she takes with a soft thanks, noting silently that it’s much smaller than the portions doled out to the others. Still, it smells good and she’s starving, so she takes an experimental bite and walks a distance away before sitting with her back to everyone else. Footsteps approach, but the gait is familiar enough that she doesn’t need to look up. Tyri’el sits beside her, holding out a waterskin. “You could come sit with us, you know.”

“I think I might put the orcs off their lunches,” Violet says shortly, accepting the waterskin and taking a long drink from it before handing it back to him.

“You’re probably right,” Tyri’el says, taking a bite of meat and sighing. “But, I promised Hathir I’d extend the invitation.”

Violet looks over her shoulder, and Hathir waves at her when he sees that she’s looking his way. She raises her hand in response, turning back to Tyri’el.

“Is he like this with every woman he meets?” She asks, and Tyri’el smiles.

“Not just the women,” he says, taking a drink. “I’ve grown used to it by now.”

“How long have you know him?”

“A few centuries. We were roommates at the Royal Academy.” Tyri’el looks over at her, seeing her bewilderment, and elaborates. “Going on seven hundred years.”

“How…how old are you?” Violet asks, shocked at his statement.

“Seven hundred and nine, this autumn,” Tyri’el says, as if it’s a completely normal declaration. Violet blinks, eyes wide.

“Light,” she breathes, “I suppose I really didn’t realize how long elves live.”

“My people live much shorter than some other races,” Tyri’el says, chewing thoughtfully and stroking the patch of hair on his chin. “Kaldorei live tens of thousands of years, as do the draenei and even some of the tauren.”

“Much longer than humans,” Violet says, and Tyri’el nods.

“I’ve never asked how old you are,” he says, and Violet snorts.

“To us lowly humans, it’s a rude question.”

“I’ve never thought of you as lowly,” Tyri’el says, frowning.

“It’s implied,” Violet replies, sighing as she looks over her shoulder at the others. “I was twenty this past spring.”

“Before or after we met?” Tyri’el asks, trying to figure the math in his head.

“A week before,” Violet says softly, grasping at her necklace. “I suppose that makes me still an infant to the sin’dorei, yeah?”

“Perhaps,” Tyri’el says, thinking for a moment. “We age physically at the same rate as humans until young adulthood, then continue at a much slower rate. But sin’dorei aren’t viewed as adults until we’re a hundred and ten. Even then, we’re mostly still considered children by those older than us.”

“Must be nice, having that much time,” Violet muses, and Tyri’el shrugs.

“For some,” he says quietly, and Violet regrets her words when she sees the sadness behind his eyes. An uncomfortable silence follows, each of them finishing their lunches, and Tyri’el looks up at the sky, his eyes tracing the horizon. He bristles, catching Violet’s attention as she watches him out of the corner of her eye. “What does that look like to you?”

Violet follows his line of sight, blood running cold at what she sees.

“A scout,” she says, seeing a small silhouette on the western horizon, moving almost unnoticeably against the dusty skyline. Pulling her scarf to cover her nose and mouth, she stands slowly. “Warn the others. Stay alert but don’t looked panicked. It will be easier to draw them out if they think you haven’t spotted them.”

“What are you going to do?” Tyri’el asks, standing while trying to act as casually as he can despite the panic rising in his chest.

“What I do best,” Violet says, and in the next instant, she’s gone, dissolving into thin air like a mirage. Fighting the urge to look back to the scout, Tyri’el moves back towards the group as calmly as he can.

“Where’s Violet?” Hathir asks, seeing his friend returning alone.

“She spotted a scout,” he says, and the group pales. “She’s gone ahead to take care of it, but we need to get moving.”

“We should ready ourselves for a fight,” one of the orcs says, and Tyri’el shakes his head.

“It will be easier to dispatch a raiding party if we can lure them into thinking they’ve caught us unaware.”

Aeonessa stands, and an invisible wave of calm flows over the party as she casts a blessing to bolster their courage. As casually as they can, they pack up and resume their places around the wagon, the two orcs at the front to pull the wagon along, and the others walking alongside. Tyri’el keeps his eyes trained low, but he catches movement ahead of them, looking up just in time to see the shape of the scout crumple to the ground in the distance. A few moments later, Violet appears beside him, chest heaving as she catches her breath.

“How many?” Tyri’el asks, and the group startles at her sudden reappearance.

“Half dozen,” she says. “And some kind of leader on the biggest wolf I’ve ever seen.”

“How much time to we have?” Aeonessa asks, looking to the horizon.

“A few minutes at most. Once they find their fallen scout, they’ll likely hasten their advance.”

Tyri’el is silent for a moment, calculating the situation.

“Nessa, get in the back of the cart and hide yourself under one of the blankets.”

Aeonessa nods, hopping into the cart and making herself hidden amongst the supplies.

“Violet, stealth yourself and flank them once they approach.”

Violet disappears without a word, and Tyri’el turns to Hathir.

“We’re all going to die,” he says, casting the beginnings of a spell without needing to be told. Soon, he shimmers completely out of sight, leaving only Tyri’el and the orcs visible.

“Don’t fight until they’re in melee range,” Tyri’el instructs them, and they nod, shifting their grips for better access to their weapons when the time comes. Tyri’el makes himself invisible, moving away from the wagon to put enough space between them to minimize collateral damage from the spell he keeps on the tip of his tongue.

Time passes tensely as they wait for the raiding party, and soon enough, the silhouettes of the fel orcs appear on the ridge above them. To their unknowing eyes, it looks as if it’s just another unaccompanied wagon ripe for the taking. From what Tyri’el can see, it’s five platemail-clad fighters and what’s likely a warlock traveling on foot, and a captain atop a worg in the center of the group. They advance slowly at first, coming upon the body of their fallen comrade, and the captain shouts angrily, unsheathing one of his axes and pointing it at the wagon before beginning to charge. The other fel orcs whoop and holler, breaking into sprints behind their leader.

Without warning, the warlock staggers and falls to the ground, bright felblood spilling out from where his neck has been cut open. A bloody boot print appears on the ground beside him, but there’s no other sign of his attacker after that. The others don’t notice him fall, all of them too intent on their easy prey. By now, the two orcs with the wagon have stopped and drawn their weapons, though they stand their ground and don’t make any move to meet their attackers.

From the dry air comes a swirl of bitter cold, biting at the fel orc’s skin and slowing their approach, and Hathir fades into view as he rains razored shards of ice down on them. From the other side, bolts of pure arcane energy assault the raiding party, piercing their armor like arrows as they fly in rapid succession from Tyri’el’s fingertips. The leader shouts, and two of the fighters break from each side of the group to charge at the mages, while the leader and the remaining fighter descend on the wagon. Aeonessa leaps from her hiding spot, warhammer glowing with golden light as she crushes the last ground fighter’s trachea with one powerful swing.

Hathir calls up ice from the barren ground to ensnare the feet and legs of the two orcs charging at him, and one falls to the ground with a howl of agony, his axe flying from his grip. The sudden halt in his momentum wrenches his leg hard enough that the cracking of his bones can be heard above the glass-like clinking of the ice that falls to fatally impale his body. The other fel orc hacks away at the ice with the pommel of his sword, freeing himself in a matter of moments, but not fast enough to dodge the chunk of ice that hurtles towards him, striking him square in the chest and sending shattered spikes of his chestplate inward to pierce his heart.

A globe of energy radiates out from Tyri’el, pushing his attackers backwards and stinging at their skin long enough for him to shout another incantation that leaves one of them floundering around on the ground in the shape of a sheep. The other charges past his polymorphed comrade and raises his twin axes into the air, missing Tyri’el’s head by a matter of inches as the elf ducks out of his path. Tyri’el loses his footing and stumbles, barely having time to start a spell before the orc descends on him. In the next second, a glowing hammer soars through the air and smashes into the orc, knocking him to ground, motionless. Tyri’el shoots a grateful looks at Aeonessa, who raises her hammer in time for the shaft to stop the powerful jaws of the worg as it tries to clamp down on her torso. Tyri’el turns his attention back to the sheep-orc, only to find Violet pulling her swords from its body as it shudders back into its original form.

All that remains is the captain, shouting at his mount as he swings his sword in a desperate attempt to do damage to something now that he knows he’s gravely outnumbered. The tip of his sword catches the shoulder of one of the orcs, who cries out in pain and then in anger. He shifts his weight, driving his spiked pauldron into the front leg of the captain’s worg. The beast stumbles, caught off guard by the attack, and the captain is thrown from his saddle and onto the ground. He scrambles to recover his footing, but his weapon is too far away for him to retrieve it before there are two swords at his throat and his entire lower body is entombed in ice.

“Should we kill him?” Violet asks, chest heaving as she keeps her blades crossed against his throat. Her face and hair are spattered with felblood, and the rest of the group is similarly covered in gore and dust, though they’re mostly unharmed. Aeonessa moves to the orc who’d been slashed, easing him to the ground as she calls on the Light to begin closing his wound.

“No,” Tyri’el says, hauling himself to his feet and approaching the group. “We’ll send him back to his warchief with a warning that the Horde will tolerate no further attacks from his kind.”

The captive fel orc spits in Tyri’el’s direction, eyes blazing as red as his skin.

“Draenor ours,” he says in broken Common. “Kil’jaeden take all. World will burn.”

The fel orc jerks forward, throwing his neck against Violet’s blades before she can pull them away, effectively slitting his own throat in a final act of defiance. His body seizes as he bleeds out, finally slumping forward, supported only by the ice around him.

“An unfortunate decision,” Aeonessa says, sighing as she continues to work on the orc’s shoulder. “Now we have no way to warn the rest of them against another attack.”

“They’ll find the bodies,” Tyri’el says, looking over their group for any other apparent injuries, then lifting his eyes to the sky. “But not before the carrion birds.”

“We should move on,” Hathir says, brushing the dust from his clothes. “When the raiders don’t return, they’ll send another group out looking for them.”

“What do we do about that thing?” Violet asks, nodding in the direction of the worg. In the chaos of the attack, it slunk away from the group and is now circling them slowly, golden eyes watching them as it limps along.

“Leave it,” the injured orc says. “It will find its way back to the Citadel.”

Violet frowns, watching the beast for a moment before wiping her blades on the fel orc’s tabard and returning them to their sheathes. Once Aeonessa is satisfied that no one else is in need of healing, the group moves on, leaving the corpses of the fel orcs for the vultures that have already begun to circle overhead. Tyri’el summons a waterskin for each of them, and they recuperate from the fight as they walk.

Several times over the next hour, Violet glances over her shoulder to see that the worg is following them. It stops when it sees she’s looking at it, ears flattening against its head and its gaze trained downward. It moves slowly, limping from the bleeding gash in its upper leg left by the orc’s pauldron, and it whines audibly every once in a while.

“The wolf is following us,” Violet says finally, looking over her shoulder again. Tyri’el turns and the worg stops, still several hundred feet behind them.

“It’s probably waiting for us to stop so it can attack,” Aeonessa says, looking as well.

“It’s hurt,” Violet says, shaking her head and halting her steps. “I think it’s lost without its master.”

She tilts her head to one side, watching the beast with a frown marring her fair features. It whines in response, and Violet’s heart tugs at the sound. Reaching into one of the sacks in the back of the wagon, she rummages around, finally finding the dried meat.

She takes a piece and moves away from the caravan, taking slow, exaggerated steps towards the worg.

“Don’t go near it,” one of the orcs says, halting the wagon when he realizes what she’s doing. “They’re bred for savagery, and a wounded worg is most dangerous of all.”

“It’s hurt because of us,” Violet says, holding the meat with her teeth as she removes her gloves, holding her bare hands up in an attempt to show the worg she means it no harm. The beast cowers, tail tucked between its legs and head bowed as Violet approaches. It takes a few steps back, stopping as it sniffs at the air and catches the scent of the meat she’s carrying. Tyri’el calls her name, starting to follow her, but a firm hand on his shoulder keeps him where he is. Aeonessa shakes her head when he looks at her in question, and he returns a worried gaze to Violet. She talks to the worg in a soft, calm voice, speaking in Darnassian despite knowing it won’t understand her.

_“Easy,”_ she says, and the worg’s ears perk up at the foreign word. _“I’m not going to hurt you.”_

It eyes her warily, sniffing at her again. As she gets closer, Violet realizes how thin the beast is, and that she’s able to see the outlines of some of its bones underneath its shaggy gray pelt. This only deepens her frown.

_“_ _I want to help you,”_ she continues, hoping the elegant flow of the night elf language will soothe the beast better than Common might. Stopping a few yards away from the worg, she holds out the meat, avoiding direct eye contact as she waits for it to respond. She stands absolutely still, and the worg stares at her for a long moment before taking a tentative step forward. When Violet doesn’t react, it takes another step, and then another, limping slowly towards her. Tyri’el’s knuckles are white where they grip his staff, watching the encounter and ready to jump to Violet’s aid if the beast turns hostile. The worg stops just out of Violet’s reach, sniffing at her before jumping forward to snatch the meat from her hand. It retreats once it has its prize, barely chewing the morsel before swallowing it whole. Violet smiles.  _“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”_

The beast looks at her, licking its muzzle before taking a step towards her again. Violet moves slowly, and the worg doesn’t recoil, though it still watches her with clear uncertainty. After a few moments, Violet is close enough to touch it, and she puts her palm gently to the side of its face. The worg flinches like it expects to be struck, but it leans into her touch as she strokes its fur a few times.

“There you go,” Violet says, speaking in Common as she moves to scratch its muzzle. At the wagon, the orcs exchange a shocked look, and the sentiment is mirrored on the faces of the three elves, as well. They all fully expected the foolish human to be mauled by the beast. Violet keeps one hand on the worg’s head, trailing the other closer to its wounded leg. “Will you let me look at this?”

A whimper is the worg’s only response, and Violet touches the bloodied fur gently to find that the gash goes deep but isn’t very big. She frowns, thinking for a moment before rummaging around in her belt pack. She pulls out a roll of woolen cloth, and holds it out for the worg to sniff at. The healing balm steeped in the bandage makes the worg sneeze, but it doesn’t seem to object otherwise. Violet unfurls the cloth and begins to wrap it around the worg’s leg, stopping to pet it and whisper soft words of reassurance when it flinches at the slight pressure. Once the roll is used up, she ties it off in a knot, patting the worg’s neck.

“All better,” she says, smiling at the beast. “Now go back to wherever you call home.”

The worg cocks its head to one side, and Violet realizes that it’s probably never heard anything but Orcish, save for whatever might have been said by a stray adventurer that crossed its master’s path.

“Tyri’el,” she calls over her shoulder, and he moves towards her, stopping when the worg lets out a low growl. “Tell it to go home.”

Tyri’el raises an eyebrow, but calls out to the worg in Orcish, commanding it to return to Hellfire Citadel. It looks sideways at Violet, seeming to understand what he’s saying, but doesn’t move. Violet repeats what Tyri’el says, pointing to the horizon, but the beast still doesn’t move. Instead, it sits down on its hind legs and lets out a huff of air in what seems like a protest. Violet sighs, repeating the Orcish phrase one last time before throwing her hands up in defeat. She walks back towards the wagon, stopping when she hears the shuffling of massive feet behind her. Looking back, she sees the worg has risen and is following her, its limp lessened but still noticeable.

“I think you’ve made a friend,” Tyri’el says, and Violet sighs.

“Worgs are incredibly intelligent creatures,” one of the orcs says, watching the whole exchange with amazement. “It likely thinks you’re its master now.”

“Me?” Violet asks incredulously.

“You killed its former master, and then fed and bandaged it. To a worg, that’s a show of ownership.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?” Violet asks, looking to Tyri’el. He shrugs.

“The orcs ride them. Perhaps you could do the same.”

Violet bites her lip, brow furrowing as she considers this. With a sigh of resignation, she returns to the worg, whose tail wags a few times before she places her hand on its muzzle again.

“Do you want to come back to Falcon Watch with me?” She asks, and the worg lets out another huff of air in what seems like agreement. Violet laughs, standing on her tiptoes to scratch behind its ear. It’s then that she notices a crude metal ring hanging from its ear like an earring. She reaches up to tug gently on it, and the worg bows its head to allow her better access. “What’s this, then?”

“It’s how the fel orcs denote ownership,” Tyri’el explains, and Violet sees a series of strange markings carved into the ring in what she assumes is whatever alphabet the fel orcs use. She pulls the dagger from under her bracer and uses the flat of the blade to pry open the part of the ring that isn’t fused together. It slips out easily, and the worg shakes its head once its free of the weight.

“There’s something written on it,” Violet says, tossing the ring to Tyri’el. He turns it over in his hands, easily translating the script there.

“It’s similar to the Orcish word for trophy. Probably a dialect used by the fel orcs.”

“Trophy?”

“It’s the female variant of the word.” Tyri’el says, going on to speak the word out loud. The worg’s ears perk up, and Tyri’el nods to himself. “It’s her name.”

Violet repeats the word, and the worg looks at her, wagging her tail.

“If you intend to keep it, you should give it a new name,” one of the orcs says. “It would be dishonorable to continue using the name given by its former master.”

Violet looks back at the worg, running her fingers through the thick pile of her pale gray pelt.

“What to name you,” Violet says, mostly to herself, but the worg huffs at her words. “Hmm, what about Hala?”

The worg’s ears perk up, and her tail wags.

“You like that?” Violet asks, smiling. “All right, Hala it is.”

“Hala?” Tyri’el asks, and Violet looks over at him.

“Its from a fairy story my mother read me when I was little,” she replies, smiling sadly. “The moon fell in love with a mortal woman. I forget how it goes, but the woman’s name was Hala.”

The worg nuzzles at Violet’s hair, snuffling in her ear, and Violet laughs.

“It’s decided, then,” she says, planting a kiss on her muzzle. “You’ll be my Hala.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on belf aging:  
> So, there's no real information on how blood elves age, so I had to kind of bullshit my own system for it. When Anasterian died, he was around 3,000 years old, and was considered to be 'ancient'. I assumed ancient to mean 90 years old in human terms, so that 3,000 was easy to divide - so 1,000 years in belf time is about 30 years in human age. The system isn't perfect, but it gives me a fuzzy approximate age range for everyone. In human terms, Tyri'el is in his mid-20s, and Beleron is in his early 40s. The rest of the aging ratio is kind of a gray area from there, but I just go with it.
> 
> Because in here, I'm a Titan and I do what I want.


	20. Through Hellfire and Back

“Mind if I walk with you?”

Violet looks up, seeing Hathir hanging back so he can sidle up next to her where she and Hala are bringing up the rear of the group.

“I suppose not,” Violet says, holding in a sigh.

“I wasn’t asking you,” he says, moving slowly towards them. “I was asking her.”

He nods to Hala, who sniffs at his extended hand, looking sideways at Violet as if to gauge her mistress’s reaction the elf. Violet shrugs, and Hala turns up her snout, ignoring Hathir.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, falling in step next to Violet. At the head of the group, Tyri’el looks around when he realizes his friend is no longer beside him, finally spotting him beside Violet. He catches her attention, quirking an eyebrow to silently ask if he should intervene, but Violet shakes her head. He scowls at Hathir, turning his attention back to the road ahead of them. Hathir takes in a breath before speaking. “I’ve been wondering. How does a lovely young woman such as yourself end up stuck with that one?”

He gestures with his head to Tyri’el.

“He saved my life, actually.”

“Really now? Do tell.”

“There’s not much to tell. I was attacked by trolls and he teleported me to safety.” Violet smirks. “Albeit, straight into the heart of the Undercity.”

“ _There_ it is,” Hathir exclaims, shaking his head with a grin. “For such a gifted mage, he’s not too blessed in the common sense department.”

Violet laughs, scratching Hala’s fur when the worg looks over worriedly.

“I’m not sure I’m qualified to comment on that,” she says, and Hathir chuckles.

“When you’ve known him for as long as I have, a pattern starts to emerge.” Hathir looks at Tyri’el, his smile turning more thoughtful. “Still, he’s the best friend I could ever ask for. He’s a saint to put up with me for this long.”

“I was starting to think the same thing.”

Hathir blinks in surprise, grin returning as comprehension dawns on him.

“I was surprised when he showed up this morning,” he says, smile faltering.

“Why’s that?”

“I haven’t seen him in almost two years. Even for an elf, that’s a long time to go without one’s closest friend.”

“It seems like he’s neglected a lot of people recently,” Violet says, thinking back to everything Tyri’el told her about his niece.

“I suppose I can understand that,” Hathir says, shoulders sagging just a bit. “He tends to shut up and shut down wherever feelings get involved.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Violet says, eyes again finding Tyri’el.

“I hypothesize that it’s genetic.”

“His uncle?” Violet asks, and a small smile plays on Hathir’s lips.

“Praetor Sunfury isn’t a very touchy-feely fellow, but I was referring to Tyri’el’s father.”

“What does that mean, ‘Praetor’? It’s not a title I’ve heard before.”

“I can’t think of a human equivalent,” Hathir says, pausing for a moment. “It’s a noble title, but it’s also a military rank.”

“Beleron is in the army?”

“No, no. In his case, it’s inherited. Historically, the Sunfury family has always served as the second in command to the royal family of Quel’Thalas. Tyri’el’s grandfather led the Sunfury army at King Anasterian’s command. When he died, Beleron inherited the title as the eldest son.”

“What does that make Tyri’el?”

“Besides a big pain in my ass, you mean?”

Violet laughs, and Hathir continues.

“The title isn’t passed to female descendants, so his mother doesn’t count for anything in that respect.  On his father’s side, however,” Hathir begins, sucking in a breath like he’s nervous to speak, “his title is Margrave.”

At Violet’s look of confusion, Hathir elaborates.

“That one has a human equivalent. Tyri’el, in human terms, is the Marquis of Tranquillien, or he will be, when his father passes.” He amends his statement. “If he passes. I’d wager he’s too stubborn to ever die.”

“He’s never spoken of his father,” Violet says, and Hathir nods.

“Not surprising. They have a…tense relationship, at best.”

Violet frowns, watching Tyri’el as he converses with one of the orcs.

“He does seem a little happier with you around, at least,” Hathir says, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“I don’t know about that. He seems pretty reserved from where I stand.”

“Like I said, he’s not the best at expressing emotions.”

Violet snorts.

“I doubt he has any emotions when it comes to me, save for vexation and unnecessary worry.”

“I don’t know,” Hathir says, exaggerating his shrug. “He seems pretty protective of you.”

“Unnecessary worry,” Violet repeats, looking up at Tyri’el to find he’s watching them with eyebrows furrowed. He quickly turns his attention back to the orc, and Violet glances over to see Hathir grinning.

“Is he bothering you?” Aeonessa says, walking back to them from where she was traveling with the wagon.

“Not just yet,” Violet says, and Aeonessa laughs shortly.

“Give it time.”

“Nonsense,” Hathir says, poorly feigning innocence. “We were just discussing—”

“I know what you were discussing,” his sister says, narrowing her eyes at him. “And you know very well you shouldn’t be.”

“I think Violet here has a right to know who she’s—”

“Hathir,” Aeonessa says, voice low in warning. “He’s been through enough without you spinning melodrama.”

“Excuse me, big sister,” Hathir says, holding his hands up in defeat.

“We’re almost back to Falcon Watch, _little brother_. Give Tyri’el his due respect and hold your tongue until then.” Aeonessa shifts her attention to Violet. “I apologize, Violet. I really should have smothered him in his infancy.”

Beside Violet, Hala’s ears perk up and her body tenses, her eyes trained on the horizon. It’s all dark sky and red dust before them, but something drifts above the howling of the wind.

“Stop the cart,” Violet calls, sprinting up to where the orcs and Tyri’el have stopped to turn back to her.

“More fel orcs?” Tyri’el asks, but Violet holds up a hand to silence him. She listens intently, dropping to her knees to press her ear to the ground.

“We need to get moving,” she says, straightening up with wide, fear-stricken eyes. _“Now.”_

“What’s wro—”

Aeonessa doesn’t get to finish her question, her voice drowned out by a metallic wail that carries from over the horizon. Far above the clouds of dust choking the air, a plume of black smoke rises against the celestial backdrop, and even at this distance, it’s clear that it’s moving in their direction.

“We’ll never make it in time,” one of the orcs says, fear written plainly in his rough features. “We’re bottlenecked by the hills.”

He’s right - they’re virtually trapped, with hills rising to the north of them and a sheer cliff face dropping hundreds of feet into a canyon to their south. The only path they have is forward towards the barely-visible spire of Falcon Watch. Even if they had more time, they couldn’t move the wagon out of the fel reaver’s path without backtracking several miles. Violet’s eyes flick across the group, from the laden cart to the fearful elves, finally landing on Hala.

“Those things are sentient, yeah?” She asks, addressing Tyri’el.

“As far as we can tell,” he says, eyebrow piqued. “They seem to respond to outside stimuli, and things that…oh no. _No_.”

He sees the wheels turning in Violet’s mind, and the way she eyes Hala’s saddle, her eyes flicking between the worg and the smoke in the distance.

“No,” he repeats.

“We don’t have much other choice,” Violet says, grasping at Hala’s reins and moving to hoist herself up into the saddle. Tyri’el grabs her shoulder, stopping her.

“That’s suicide,” he says, the genuine fear in his eyes giving her a moment’s pause. “You can’t—”

“What am I missing?” Hathir asks, realization dawning on him when Violet shrugs off Tyri’el’s hand and climbs up into the saddle. “That is a very bad idea, Violet.”

“Do you have an alternative? Either I try this, or we all die.”

“We can abandon the cart and—”

“No,” Violet snaps, familiarizing herself with the construction of the saddle. “Your people need these supplies, and you all need to keep your lives.”

“Violet, please don’t do this.” Tyri’el is pleading now, his hand coming to rest on her calf. “Please.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says, her voice shaking to betray the uncertainty beneath her confident words. “I’ll lead it away and double back once I’ve bought you enough time.”

Aeonessa’s hand joins Tyri’el’s on Violet’s leg, and a sense of calm overcomes her.

“Belore keep you,” Aeonessa says, looking up at Violet from behind unreadable green eyes. There’s recognition there, and perhaps respect, seeing in the human an unwavering dedication to her new mission.

“Get the supplies to Falcon Watch,” Violet says. “I’ll meet you there in no time.”

“Come back to me,” Tyri’el says, grip tightening on her leg before he pulls it away.

“I will,” she says, snapping the reins to spur Hala into motion. The worg travels swiftly, much faster than a horse, and Violet pulls up her scarf to keep the driving dust from choking her. The fel reaver’s wail comes again, almost drowned out by the sound of Hala’s paws thrumming as she runs, and by the rush of Violet’s pulse hammering in her ears. The construct’s silhouette slowly fades into view, and by the time she can see the glowing of its fel core, the hills to the north have tapered off into a vast plateau. She steers Hala north, the fel reaver ambling along on her left. It gives no indication as to whether or not it notices them, and as Violet widens the space between the lessening hills behind her and the never-ending expanse of flat red terrain before her, she wishes she’d asked Tyri’el for a few basic Orcish commands. If she could only get Hala to make some noise, it might notice them.

Once they’re around the other side of the hills, she steers Hala towards the fel reaver, silently calling out to the Light as she does. The thing is far larger than it had seemed from the air, stretching up taller than the highest steeple spire of the Cathedral of Light in Stormwind. The closer she gets, the more she begins to realize just how slim her chances of escaping its wrath have become. The ground beneath Hala’s agile paws begins to shake as they draw nearer, and the reaver’s thundering footfalls falter for a moment. Violet realizes that its caught sight of them, and is now making its way directly towards them at a quicker pace. She takes a deep breath, pulling on the reins to bring Hala to a skidding halt.

“Here we go, girl,” she says, leaning to speak into the worg’s ear. Hala is shuffling backwards, her instincts telling her to retreat or die. Violet pats Hala’s neck and yanks on the reins until they’re facing the opposite direction of the shambling monstrosity. “Show me how fast you can run.”

Without needing further encouragement, Hala takes off, undoubtedly knowing she’s running for her life. Violet looks over her shoulder, and at first, it seems like they’re actually outrunning the fel reaver, but as she watches it as it pursues them, she realizes all to quickly that it’s gaining on them - and fast. Returning her attention to the landscape before them, Violet blinks hard against the driving dust and looks for the best possible route to lead the reaver along. There’s no truly ideal option, but leading the thing farther north will guarantee as much time for the others to reach safety as she can possibly give them. Hala seems to sense her mistress’s distress, whining as she runs, and Violet rubs the worg’s shoulder in a vain attempt to soothe her.

Chancing another look behind her, Violet finds the fel reaver has almost caught up to them, the thing sending up billowing clouds of black smoke as it taxes itself to catch them. It wails, the sound nearly deafening, and Hala startles, scrabbling to regain her footing. The misstep costs them precious speed, and the fel reaver closes in on them. Violet prays one final time, asking Tyri’el to forgive her foolishness, and for Hala to forgive her mistress for almost certainly throwing her life away, as well. The reaver raises one massive leg, bringing its foot swiftly to the ground, the shockwave produced pushing Hala off her feet and sending Violet flying to the ground. She lands hard on her shoulder, head knocking against the ground with enough force that she’s knocked instantly unconscious.

The last thing she sees before she careens into blackness is a winged shadow painted against the dry ground.

 

—

“Violet? Violet! Come on, wake up!”

Something is shaking Violet, and through the nauseating throbbing in her head, she feels her whole body moved by a pair of strong hands. She grunts against the harsh motion, straining her muscles to force open her eyes. The striking colors of the sky above swim together and she groans, eyes slipping shut again.

“She blinked! I saw her blink.”

“That’s a lot of blood.”

“Let go of her. I’m sure her arm is broken.”

Something warm and soothing covers Violet’s whole body, greatly lessening the screaming pain in her head, but only slightly dulling the ache that shoots up her arm like lightning.

“Clear a bed, Bazil. Help me move her.”

The ground rushes out from under Violet, and her eyes spring open. She’s tucked against someone’s chest, their heart beating against her ear, and she groans as her arm is jostled. She’s startled to find that she can’t move her fingers, the simple act of trying causing another excruciating shock of pain to course up her arm. Her chest contracts and for a moment, she can’t breathe.

“Set her down. Gently, gently.”

She’s laid on something soft and smelling of clean soap, and the warm, firm hold on her disappears.

“Violet, can you hear me?” It’s Aeonessa, her voice close and frantic. Violet can only grunt in response. “Search the wagon. I need bandages. Go!”

“Tell me what to do.” This voice belongs to Tyri’el, and Violet almost smiles at the sound.

“Hold her down. She’s conscious, and this is going to hurt.”

Before Violet can try to ask what’s going on, her body is wrenched painfully as her shoulder is forced back into its socket. She screams, thrashing like an animal against a gentle but firm hold. Her grip on reality falters, and she starts to black out again, but something warm against her chest pushes an overriding sense of calm over her, soothing her mind enough to ground herself in the present.

“I’m sorry,” Aeonessa says, and Violet forces her eyes open through no small show of will. The room around her is unfamiliar, but Tyri’el comes into view, hovering above her, his face alive with worry. Violet tries to say his name, to ask him what’s going on, but he shushes her.

“Don’t try to speak,” he says softly, though his throat is strained and his voice breaks.

“Put her out,” Aeonessa says, and Tyri’el looks away from Violet in question.

“What?”

“Put her to sleep. She’s no good to me flailing around like this.”

“Rest,” Tyri’el says, putting his hand on her forehead. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

There’s no way for Violet to tell how long Tyri’el’s spell has lasted, but when her eyes flutter open, she feels as if she’s been asleep for a hundred years. Her body is stiff, but her fingers wiggle when she tests them out, and she breathes a short sigh of relief.

“Easy,” Tyri’el says, keeping her against the mattress with a gentle hand on her unwounded shoulder.

“What…” She starts, her voice hoarse, and looks over at him. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, watching her like she’s made of glass and could shatter at any moment. “What happened?”

“You were attacked by a fel reaver,” he says, swallowing hard.

“I know that,” she says, shifting in an attempt to sit up. Tyri’el helps her, his touch light for fear of hurting her. “But how did I get here? How am I…not dead?”

“Uncle saved you,” he says, looking towards the door. It’s closed, and they’re alone in the small room, but Violet gets the feeling there are others just outside the door, waiting for news of her recovery. “He was flying back from Zangarmarsh and saw you fleeing from the reaver.”

“Where’s…where’s Hala?” Violet asks, pulse jumping in a way that makes her head throb. “Light, I killed her, didn’t I?”

“She’s fine,” Tyri’el says, pouring her a glass of water. She tries to reach for it with her dominant hand, but her arm screams out in protest, so she takes it awkwardly with the other hand. “Although, I suspect she’s not too happy about being carried in Mavros’s claws the whole way back. He’s certainly not pleased.”

Violet laughs tiredly at the thought, instantly regretting it.

“Easy,” Tyri’el says again, taking the glass from her as she spills the water over herself when a sharp pain in her side causes her to jerk unexpectedly. “You broke a few ribs when you fell.”

“But I came back,” she says, managing a smile in his direction.

“That you did,” he replies, trying to match her smile but falling short. “Though, I think next time I’ll add the stipulation that you return unharmed and conscious.”

“I can’t promise anything.”

Tyri’el chuckles, and the door behind him opens. Aeonessa steps in, arms laden with a tray filled with a teacup and a number of vials.

“Stop harassing my patient,” she says to Tyri’el, though there’s no malice in her words. He sighs, a smile building on his lips.

“I’ll go find uncle. I’m sure he has some choice words for you.”

Violet groans, and Tyri’el squeezes her leg before leaving the room, door clicking shut behind him.

“I don’t have to tell you how incredibly reckless that was,” Aeonessa says, setting down the tray.

“No, no you don’t,” Violet says, taking one of the vials when it’s handed to her.

“Drink.”

Violet obeys, tasting various herbs in the thick mixture. She feels some strength return to her as she drinks, finding the lingering fog in her mind fading away.

“You must have someone watching over you,” Aeonessa says, taking the empty vial from her. “And I don’t mean Praetor Sunfury.”

“Speaking of,” Tyri’el says, opening the door slowly to let his uncle into the room. Beleron comes to the bed, genuine worry behind his usually stoic expression.

“Thank you,” Violet says, unable to properly articulate just how grateful she is. “I…I don’t—”

“No need to thank me,” Beleron says, looking her over. “I was simply in the right place at the right time. I would advise you, however, not to be so careless in the future.”

“Yes, sir,” Violet says, nodding. Beleron pats her leg gently before leaving the room. Violet lets out a long breath as Tyri’el sits beside her again. “And here I was, thinking he hated me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Tyri’el assures her. “Granted, I’m not sure he’s overly fond of you.”

“It’s more likely that he fears Sylvanas’s wrath more than he dislikes you,” Aeonessa chimes in, and Tyri’el nods in agreement.

“Think you can walk? The whole settlement is eager to thank the human who risked her life to ensure the safety of their dinners.”

“I think…so…” Violet says, leaning forward.

“I’d advise against it,” Aeonessa says, then sighs. “But you don’t strike me as one who follows physician’s rules voluntarily.”

“You’re very…perceptive,” Violet manages, sitting up with Tyri’el’s help.

“At least let me put your arm in a sling. It’s not totally healed yet.”

Violet nods, and Aeonessa goes about tying a length of cloth over her other shoulder to cradle her injured arm.

“No drinking,” Aeonessa says, shooting a hard glare at Tyri’el. “No matter how hard my brother tries to sweet talk her into it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tyri’el says, helping Violet to her feet.

“Thank you,” Violet says, and Aeonessa nods, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. Her legs are stiff as they leave the room, but because of the lingering Light she can feel in her muscles, she makes it out into the hall without needing any help. Once they’re alone, Tyri’el pulls her into hug, careful of her arm, but the sudden contact startles her nonetheless.

“Don’t,” he starts, swallowing hard. “Don’t _ever_ be so careless with your life again.”

He pulls back, looking her dead in the eye.

“Promise me, Violet. I want to hear you say it.”

“I…I promise,” she says, unnerved by the stark sincerity in his voice, and in his eyes. He exhales through his nose, eyes lingering on her arm, and nods to himself.

“Everyone’s waiting,” he says, holding out his arm to her. She loops her good arm around his elbow, smiling despite the flush creeping into her cheeks. “Once word gets out, I don’t think you’ll ever be seen as _‘just a human’_ again.”


	21. Calm Before The Tempest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Thoughts of suicide.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Tyri’el drags his eyes from where they’re fixed on the canyon beyond to look over his shoulder, seeing Violet approaching him with a concerned smile. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands to clear away any lingering moisture, and she sits next to him on the rocky edge of the uppermost tier of the settlement.

“I suppose not,” he says quietly, looking over at her. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, taking in the scenery. “How is your arm?”

“Still a little sore,” Violet says, flexing it stiffly to show she’s regained full use of it. “Aeonessa says it was a clean break, so it will heal faster.”

Tyri’el nods, shifting his sitting position when he realizes both of his legs have gone numb. He stretches them out in front of him, trying to collect his thoughts.

“What’s bothering you?” Violet asks, and he looks over to see she’s watching him closely, lips pursed in a thin line.

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re not a very good liar,” she replies, corners of her mouth turning down.

“I never was,” Tyri’el says with a soft sigh. Violet waits for him to speak again, and he finally looks over at her. “Do you think I’m a good person?”

“Better than most,” she says, and for a moment, Tyri’el almost believes her. “What’s got you questioning that so late at night?”

“I suppose I’m…uneasy about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“The reason uncle and I came to the Outlands to begin with,” he says, rubbing his palms on his pant legs. “Tomorrow we go to face our prince.”

“And that frightens you?”

“Yes.” Tyri’el sighs, running a hand through his pale locks. “More so of what he’ll say, not of what he’ll do.”

“You’ll have you uncle there,” Violet says, meaning it as a reassurance, but Tyri’el shakes his head.

“That’s likely only fuel on the fire. There’s a lot of…bad blood left between them, I’m afraid. For most of their lives, they were best friends. But then…” He hangs his head, shoulders slumping. “We betrayed him.”

Tyri’el falls silent, startling when Violet’s hand touches his shoulder.

“I won’t pretend I know how you’re feeling,” she begins, meeting his eyes in earnest, “but I’ll listen if you feel it might help.”

Tyri’el closes his eyes and looks away, unable to keep her gaze.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Then we can just sit.” Violet offers a weak smile, squeezing his shoulder gently before letting her arm fall back to her side. They sit in quiet contemplation, the sound of soft footfalls breaking the silence after a while. Violet looks over her shoulder, seeing Hala padding towards them in the darkness. She stops behind Tyri’el, sniffing at his hair before flopping down next to him. He startles, having been so deep in thought that he hadn’t noticed her arrival, and looks over at Violet, who shrugs. Hesitantly, he reaches out to the worg, and she arcs into his touch, laying her head across his lap with a satisfied grunt.

“I didn’t think you liked me,” he says, scratching behind her ear. She replies with a soft huff of air, closing her eyes in contentment.

“I think she knows a kind soul when she sees one,” Violet says, smiling softly at him.

“That must be why she chose you, hm?” Tyri’el replies, and Violet snorts.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would,” he says, looking over at her. A touch of pink shows on her cheeks as she looks away, tracing circles in the dust at her feet. Tyri’el runs his fingers through Hala’s fur, his own face flushed at his forwardness. His thoughts churn in his head, finally solidifying into a coherent thought. “Have you ever…have you ever idolized someone, put them on such a high pedestal, that your life seemed to stop making sense once they made clear who they really were?”

“Yes,” Violet says after a brief pause, eyes still fixed on the patterns she traces in the dust. “I had the loftiest of pedestals for Arthas before…everything.”

“Really?” Tyri’el asks, eyes wide. She nods, chin resting on her knees.

“He was a good prince, and he showed great care to all of his subjects. Even an awkward little Gilnean girl who could barely hold a sword.” Violet smiles sadly, the expression turning hard as she rakes her fingers through the dust like an animal clawing at prey. Hala’s ears perk up, and she looks worriedly at her mistress. “But after what he did in Stratholme…after he took my mother from me, I…”

She trails off, dusty fingers grasping at her necklace.

“I no longer held any disillusions of him.” Violet looks at him, rage swirling just behind her eyes. “So yes, I do know what it’s like to worship someone, and to lose them to their own darkness.”

“Then you’ll understand me when I say I wish that I could once again see Kael’thas as a good man. To see him redeemed.”

“No,” Violet replies through a set jaw. “I don’t understand. I want to see that bastard pay for everything he’s done. For all the lives he’s stolen and all the hell he’s wreaked upon his people.”

Tyri’el blinks, taking a moment to realize she’s not referring to Kael’thas.

“I’ll kill him with my bare hands if I ever get the chance.” Her voice is low and thick with hatred.Tyri’el shudders at the sound, and Hala lifts her head, whining at her mistress. Violet shakes her head as if to clear away her thoughts, and looks over at the worg. “Don’t look at me like that. You would, too.”

Hala only grunts in response, golden eyes flicking up to Tyri’el before laying her head back onto his lap.

“Some people can’t be saved, Tyri’el, and there are some things not even the Light can forgive.”

“Everything he did….he did for us.” Tyri’el swallows hard. “I would be dead without him, and so would most of my people. Kael…saved us.”

“But at what cost?”

“I don’t think he knew. None of us did.” Tyri’el pauses, glad to use Hala as a distraction. “When a deal was struck with Illidan, no one knew we’d just become pawns at the mercy of the Burning Legion.”

“Did your prince not know who he was? What he’d done?”

“Of course he did. Tales of the Betrayer crossed the Great Sea with the progenitor of his line, Dath’Remar. But Illidan’s naga saved us from execution at the hands of the humans, and he promised us a way to sate our maddening hunger for magic.”

“And he made good on his promise?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Tyri’el says, unconsciously reaching up to his eyes. “Do you remember how you felt after my uncle…after he forced his way into your mind?”

Violet nods, recalling how she’d been left weak and sick from what Tyri’el had called mana withdrawal.

“We lived like that for months, and for those of us who were most in tune with the arcane, it was a hundred times worse. Many people died, and the unlucky few who did not…they went irrevocably mad without the power of the Sunwell.” He looks at her, eyes seeming to dim as he speaks. “My people were already so few. The Scourge wiped out a vast majority of the population. Kael, he…”

Tyri’el wipes angrily at his eyes.

“There were no truly good options, Violet. Kael struck his bargain with Illidan to save his people. And I repaid him by…” He trails off, hating himself for showing such emotion. Still, the tears come freely. “How can I face him tomorrow? How can I look my prince -  my friend - in the eye when I abandoned him in his hour of greatest need?”

Violet reaches out on reflex, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. Part of him knows he should be shocked by the sudden embrace, but Tyri’el can only lean into her, hugging her to him like a drowning man trying desperately to stay above water. Violet’s own cheeks are wet now, and with a shaking voice, she whispers meaningless reassurances to him.

“I’m a monster,” Tyri’el says, words muffled by Violet’s cloak.

“No, you’re human.”

Tyri’el looks up at her in question, and she rephrases.

“It’s an expression where I come from. It means…it means you make mistakes. That you’re inherently imperfect no matter how hard you strive otherwise.”

“Then I don’t want to be human. I’m…I’m a Sunfury. Perfection is in my blood.” Tyri’el straightens up, breaking from Violet’s grasp. “ _Loyalty_ is in my blood. For thousands of years, the Sunfurys have lived and breathed to serve their king.”

“Tyri’el…”

“I should have stayed. I should have…”

Hala whines, lifting her head from his lap and sitting up to watch the two of them.

“I should just throw myself from this cliff and rid the world of—”

“Hey,” Violet says, gripping his shoulders and shaking him. The urgency of her tone startles him, and he looks up at her, suddenly very ashamed of his words. “Don’t you dare say something like that again, you hear me? If I don’t get to be careless with my life, you sure as hell don’t get to act so callous about your own. Understand?”

“I…” Tyri’el begins, any feeble attempt at an argument dying in his throat under the intensity of her eyes. “I understand.”

“Good,” she says, face softening, but she doesn’t let go of him. “And if you ever feel like flinging yourself from a cliff, or stepping in front of a fel reaver or…or anything else you might think to do to harm yourself…promise me you’ll come tell me, all right?”

“I will,” he says, agreeing without hesitation. A strange warmth starts in his chest at her sincerity, at the care she’s showing him and the way she’s holding him.

“Say it.”

“I promise.”

Some of the fear she’d felt at his rash statement begins to fade, but Violet still watches him closely, feeling for a moment like she should drag him away from the cliff to ensure his safety. The thought of him hurting himself like that starts her heart hammering in her chest, and she tries desperately to calm it. She wants to yell at him, to tell him he’s a fool for feeling that way, but something wrenches painfully in her chest when she remembers herself hunched over in the closet in the Undercity. When it was she who entertained thoughts like that, all because of the pain and hopelessness she felt she had no other way to escape from. For reasons she can’t quite name, the thought of him in such agony brings bitter tears to her eyes, and she tries in vain to blink them away.

“Whatever happens tomorrow, I have faith you can weather it.” She says it quietly, knowing those words would have helped her immeasurably at many times in her life, and she looks at him in earnest, willing him to believe it. “You’re strong, Tyri’el, even if you don’t always feel it.”

“No,” Tyri’el breathes, shaking his head. “I’m weak. I’m a coward, and a failure, and—”

“Uther said something to me once, something that I’ve kept close to my heart throughout my life,” Violet says, releasing her grip on his shoulders and moving to cover his hands with her own. “He told me that courage - real courage - is not the absence of fear, but rather doing what you must despite being afraid.”

Tyri’el blinks in surprise, caught off guard by both her touch and her words.

“He was a wise man,” he says, looking down at their hands.

“Yes, he was,” Violet says, gently lifting his chin to make him look at her. “And if the Lightbringer could find reason to believe in me, you can find reason to believe in yourself.”

They watch each other, seaglass eyes staring into fel green, and for just a moment, Tyri’el thinks she might be right. The warmth in his chest grows, smothering out any lingering darkness in his thoughts, and he smiles at her. It’s a genuine expression, one born of hope and the feeling of having found a safe harbor in the midst of a raging storm.


	22. The Eye

Morning arrives quickly, and a knock on the door rouses Violet from her sleep. She’d spent most of the night staring up at the ceiling of her room within the Falcon Watch inn, replaying the events of the past few hours in her mind. More than once, she’d gotten all the way to the door with the intent of going across the hall to check on Tyri’el, but she always turned around and climbed back into bed, promising herself that he would come get her if he truly needed her company.

“Come in,” she calls, lifting her head from the pillow to look over at the door. It opens halfway, stopping when it hits something soft. Tyri’el pokes his head into the room, finding that almost all of the small space is taken up by Hala, who looks up at him with an annoyed huff. He raises an eyebrow at her, eyes then finding Violet where she’s emerging from under a pile of blankets, rubbing at her eyes to clear away what little sleep she’d managed.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” he says quietly, the dark circles under his eyes telling her he had trouble sleeping, as well. Violet nods, running a hand through her mussed hair, and Tyri’el moves to leave.

“Take her with you,” Violet says, nodding to Hala. Tyri’el calls the worg, who scrabbles up, bumping into the walls as she goes, and he utters a short command in Orcish. Hala cocks her head to one side, craning her neck to look back at her mistress, who waves her hand towards the door. “Go on, then.”

Tyri’el maneuvers the door all the way open, and Hala squeezes past him and pads down the hall. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but he leaves the room without a word. Sighing to herself, Violet changes out of her sleep clothes, pulling on her traveling gear and all of her leather armor. She packs what few belongings she has into her rucksack and tries to put the bed back in order before leaving the room. The inn is relatively quiet, but the smell of cooking food wafts up to her as she moves down the stairs into the main area of the building.

“Good morning, Miss Devereaux,” an elf wearing an apron says, coming out of the kitchen. “I’ll make you anything you want for breakfast. Anything at all for the woman who’s to thank for all the food in my pantry.”

“Whatever you’d like to make will do nicely, Valine. Thank you.” Violet smiles tiredly, and the elf nods, returning to the kitchen. Setting down her pack, Violet sits at the table next to Tyri’el, who’s glaring into his mug of Blackrock coffee like it’s just personally insulted his heritage. She tries to think of something encouraging to say, or at the very least something comforting, but it seems all of her good advice was used up the night before, so she stays silent.

“Here you go,” Valine says, emerging from the kitchen a few moments later with a plate of steaming food and a mug of tea. Setting it down in front of Violet, the elf looks over at Tyri’el. “You’re sure you don’t want anything, Margrave? I’ve got plenty to go around.”

“I’m all right, but thank you,” Tyri’el says, trying his best at an appreciative smile. Valine shrugs and returns to the kitchen, and Tyri’el takes a long drag of his coffee. Violet pushes her plate towards him.

“You should eat,” she says, munching on a strip of bacon.

“I’m fine,” Tyri’el insists, but Violet nudges the plate closer with a stern glare.

“When a Gilnean offers to share her food, you eat.”

Tyri’el sighs, making a show of rolling his eyes as he bites the inside of his cheek to ward off a reflexive smile, and takes a piece of toast from the plate. He takes an exaggerated bite.

“There. Happy?” He asks, letting the bread fall back onto the plate. Violet frowns.

“I have my moments,” she says, leaning back in her chair and sipping her tea. She continues to eat, and after a few moments, Tyri’el picks up the toast and starts eating again. Neither of them speak, the silence between them only broken when Beleron enters the inn and comes over to the table.

“We’re ready,” he says, and Tyri’el nods solemnly, finishing his coffee and rising from his chair. Violet swallows the last bite of her breakfast and follows them as they leave, stopping at the kitchen door to thank Valine. Once outside, they make their way up to the top tier, where Hala is sitting patiently and Hathir is pouring something from a flask into his mug, quickly stowing it away when he sees them approach.

“Leaving me so soon,” he says, shaking his head in mock disapproval, though there’s genuine disappointment behind his eyes. He pouts, looking over at Violet. “And you’re taking her with you, aren’t you?”

“I’ll be back,” Tyri’el says, glancing at Violet for a moment before returning his attention to Hathir. “I don’t know when, but I will be.”

“You’ll come too, right?” Hathir says, grinning at Violet. “We’ve hardly gotten to know each other. It’s a crime, really.”

“I’ll do my best,” Violet says, nodding.

“Take care of yourself, Sparkles,” Hathir says, pulling Tyri’el into a rough hug. Violet suppresses a giggle, and Hathir takes notice. “I never got to tell you how he earned that nickname, did I? We even have wine now, thanks to you.”

“Hathir…” Tyri’el warns, but the other elf is already over to Violet, slinging his arm around her shoulder with a wicked grin.

“See, when Tyri’el here was younger, he had a bit of a speech impediment...”

“I swear to Belore, Hathir.”

“…so he had a bit of trouble with casting spells at first. Don’t ask me how, because I still haven’t figured it out after all these years, but the first day of our abjuration course, he said one word wrong and poof.” Hathir waves his hands for emphasis. “Instead of forming a mana barrier, he lit up like a Winter’s Veil tree and didn’t stop sparkling for a whole week.”

Tyri’el sighs, flushing all the way to the tip of his ears, and Violet can’t help but smile at the thought. Hathir steers her away, leaning in close when they’re out of Tyri’el’s earshot.

“Watch out for him, all right?” He says, glancing sideways at Tyri’el, who looks like he can’t decide whether or not he wants to come over to them. “What he’s doing today won’t be pretty, and he’s never been one to go easy on himself.”

“I’ll try,” Violet says, nodding.

“Thank you,” Hathir says, giving him a short but sincere hug. “I think I’ll worry less if I know he has you to look out for him.”

“Anytime, children,” Mavros says, strolling up the path in his mortal guise. “Grumpy here isn’t getting any younger.”

He gestures at Beleron, who answers with a scowl. Violet and Hathir return to the group, and the three mages begin to open a portal. Aeonessa sprints up the path, reaching the top just as the portal solidifies.

“Not even going to say goodbye?” She asks, reaching out to give Tyri’el a hug. He says a soft farewell, and she smiles, turning to Violet. “Let me look at that arm before you go.”

Violet holds out her arm obediently, and Aeonessa puts one hand on her forearm and one on her bicep, closing her eyes as her palms glow with golden light. She moves her hands across Violet’s arm, checking from fingertip to shoulder, before the light fades and she opens her eyes.

“Go easy on it, all right?” She says, and Violet nods. “You’re lucky you had me to heal it, or you’d be laid up for a week.”

Mavros lets out a loud sigh, and the group says their final goodbyes to appease the drake’s impatience. Violet takes Hala’s reins, patting the worg, and leads her through the portal. They emerge on the other side, and Hala immediately begins to sneeze, rubbing her paw over her eyes and nose with a whimper. Violet takes a moment to reorient herself, eyes adjusting from the glaring red of Hellfire Peninsula to a landscape that’s almost as barren, the rock instead tinted a vivid and unnatural purple. Tyri’el emerges next, followed by Beleron and Mavros, and the portal snaps shut behind them.

“I hate this place,” Mavros says, sighing dramatically. “It’s full of goblins I can’t eat.”

“What exactly _is_ this place?” Violet asks, looking around the small settlement. It’s really only an inn and a few other little buildings surrounded by a plain stone wall, currently mostly inhabited by goblins.

“Cosmowrench,” Tyri’el says. “Last stop before the edge of the world.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, pal.” A goblin approaches them, and Hala sniffs at him curiously, ears perking as she licks her lips. “Hey, lady, I don’t like the way your mutt’s lookin’ at me.”

Violet pats Hala’s neck to gain her attention, giving the worg a stern glare. She sits on her hind legs with a huff, still eyeing the goblin.

“You folks need a room or what?” He asks, gesturing to the inn with his thumb. “Don’t look like you’re here on vacation, though.”

“We won’t be staying,” Beleron says, turning to look at Violet. “She, however, will be.”

Violet whirls to face him, eyes wide.

“I’m going with you. Sylvanas was very clear that—”

“Sylvanas isn’t here,” Beleron says, voice raised. “Someone like you has no business in Tempest Keep.”

“Someone like me?” Violet asks, eyes narrowing. “What exactly do you—”

“Violet, please,” Tyri’el says, his voice apologetic rather than annoyed. “You wouldn’t be allowed past the front gate. There’s really no alternative.”

Violet frowns, but under Tyri’el’s pleading gaze, she relents.

“Fine. When can I expect you back?”

“I don’t know,” he says, and her frown deepens. “There isn’t exactly a protocol for this kind of thing.”

“So…one room, yeah?” The goblin says, eyebrows raised as he looks between them. “And a stall in the stable for, uh, Fluffy here?”

“Yes, thank you,” Violet says, digging into her belt pouch for a gold piece when the goblin holds out his hand expectantly. Mavros and Beleron move towards the gate, and Violet grabs Tyri’el’s arm to halt him when he turns to leave.

“Come back to me, you hear?” She says, keeping her voice quiet to hide the quaver in her words. “Unharmed and conscious.”

“I’ll…” He begins, pulling her into a one-armed hug. “I will.”

With that, Tyri’el leaves the settlement, Violet watching him until he’s around the wall and out of sight. Mavros has shed his mortal guise and is stretching his wings as Beleron climbs up into the saddle. He holds out his hand for Tyri’el, who takes it, and pulls his nephew up to sit behind him. Mavros takes flight, rising above the small settlement and into the thin air above. Tyri’el glances over his shoulder, seeing the shrinking shapes of Violet and Hala far below, watching them leave. He swallows hard, turning his attention to the eastern horizon.

The air is thick with dust and swirling plumes of wayward mana, the latter drawn lazily in the same direction they’re flying. Lightning flashes out in the distance, and a massive silhouette reveals itself through the haze. On first glance, it could easily be mistaken for a great crystalline fortress, but as they grow closer, it solidifies into what is very clearly a spacecraft of some kind. Three smaller replicas hover above it, each a different color, but the main ship is lit up with shifting shades of magenta and purple, thrumming softly with energy. A large, glass-like tube juts out from the edge of the crumbling purple land, spanning over a black abyss to connect to the ship, filled with a constant flow of mana so potent Tyri’el can almost taste it from hundreds of feet up. Below them, the land falls away and they fly over complete nothingness, finally arriving at the front gate to the mighty keep. Mavros lands easily under the watchful gaze of the dozen guards manning the gate, though they make no indication of hostility as Tyri’el and Beleron dismount.

“Return to Cosmowrench,” Beleron tells the drake. “Keep an eye on the girl.”

“Mystical being of immeasurable power, and I get stuck babysitting a human.” Mavros sighs, but bobs his head in a nod. “Be careful.”

The elf says nothing, and the drake takes flight, flying up over the walls surrounding the ship and out of sight. Turning to his nephew, Beleron puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s meant as a reassurance, but Tyri’el can feel it shaking, and that only serves to unnerve him more than he already is. They face the keep, taking in the sight for a moment before approaching the front gate.

“Hail, Praetor,” one of the guards says, stepping forward. “We can’t allow you any further.”

“So long as you wear that signet,” Beleron says, nodding to the ring on the guard’s right hand, “and so long as you serve the ranks of the Sunfury Army, you will do as your Praetor commands.”

“With all due respect, sir, you forfeit the right to command us when you left Tempest Keep and deserted your prince.”

“Hold your tongue, boy,” Beleron says, the air around him warping with heat. “You will let us pass, and inform the prince of our presence, _posthaste_.”

The guards all reach for their weapons, looking worriedly to their apparent leader, whose eyes flick over to Tyri’el and back to Beleron. He exhales slowly through his nose, dipping into a shallow bow.

“This way, Praetor,” he says as he gestures to the gate, then looks to Tyri’el. “Margrave.”

It takes two elves on each side to open the gate, the arcane wards fizzling out as the metal separates to reveal the fortress within. Beleron and Tyri’el follow the guard inside, and Tyri’el has to fight to keep his hands from shaking. He walks with his posture straight and his head held high, not meeting the gaze of any of the incredulous elves they pass. Beleron walks a few steps ahead of him, making a point to make eye contact with each elf he passes, and most of them shrink away from his gaze.The long corridor they travel down is wrought from pale stone and bright metal, the walls inlaid with threads of shimmering mana and crystals pulsing with energy. The hallway empties out into a large, circular chamber filled with fledgling dragonhawks and their trainers. In the upper reaches of the hall, blood elves mill about with various tasks, all eyes coming to rest on the newcomers.

“Wait here,” the guard says, turning back to Beleron. “What intentions should I relay to the Prince?”

“Tell him his oldest friend has come for a game of chess.”

The guard nods curtly, disappearing through a doorway off to the side, and Tyri’el and Beleron are left to stand at the mercy of their former peers. The looks on their faces are anything from shock to rage to disgust, though Tyri’el can’t see them from where he’s staring pointedly at the floor. A noise comes from above them like the wind rushing from great wings, and they both look up. A shape passes over them, flying in a circle to land gracefully before them. It’s a great bird, seemingly made purely of fire, its feathers glowing with warm, ethereal inner light. It watches them with keen eyes like two hot coals, and it approaches them with even, unhurried strides.

“Ah, so they finally return,” the phoenix says, speaking in a clear, melodious voice without moving its mouth. It cocks its head to one side. “From guilt, or from a lingering sense of duty, I wonder?”

“Al’ar, it is an honor to once again be graced by your presence,” Beleron says, bowing low before the great bird, and Tyri’el does the same. “We’ve come to speak with your master.”

“My dear prince will not be pleased to hear of your arrival,” Al’ar says as they straighten up. “But I, at least, am glad to see you here.”

The phoenix takes flight again, soaring into the air to ascend to a perch high up in the rafters of the great hall, settling into the alcove to watch them with seemingly great interest.

“The prince will see you,” an elf says, approaching the pair with thinly-veiled disdain. “You must first surrender your weapons.”

Beleron and Tyri’el reluctantly hand over their staves, though everyone in the room is quite aware of the fact that they don’t need them to wield immense magics. The elf gestures for them to follow, and they travel through a maze of hallways that take them deeper into the ship. Everywhere there are elves clamoring into doorways to watch them pass, whispers floating all around them. Very few words spoken are kind, and most seem to be wishing violence on the pair, though some display honest curiosity at their arrival.

They emerge into another hallway, one that houses a grand staircase with guards posted on either side every few steps. At the top is a large double door, inlaid with strange symbols and glowing crystals. Their escort bows and disappears, and Beleron once again puts his hand on Tyri’el’s shoulder as a gesture of reassurance. Tyri’el nods at him, swallowing the dread bubbling up in his chest. Beleron takes a deep breath and pushes open one of the doors.

Beyond is a small antechamber, and past that is a sitting area of sorts, the walls lined with bookshelves that reach up to the ceiling. There are sofas arranged around the room, as well as a dining table with a half dozen chairs around it. At the center of the room is a massive crystal that fills the space with a soft glow and a low humming, the latent mana contained within tangible in the air.

“I suppose I knew you would come, sooner or later,” a voice says from the far side of the room. “Though, I didn’t think it’d be all for a game of chess.”

The pair turn, seeing a doorway filled with a familiar figure. Kael’thas appraises them from afar, clad in a simple yet still opulent robe, and then strides towards them.

“Should we feign pleasantries, Bel, or should we just jump right to your sermon, hm?” He asks, stopping a few feet away from them. Tyri’el looks down and away, pulse hammering in his ears and his cheeks burning, but Beleron locks eyes with the prince.

“There are matters we need to discuss, Kael,” he says, and the prince snorts.

“Very well. Let’s have it, then.”

“We need to speak in private,” Beleron replies, glancing sideways at Tyri’el. “Just the two of us.”

“Like old times,” Kael’thas says, hard expression faltering for a moment. “Very well. This way.”

“Uncle,” Tyri’el begins, but Beleron silence him with a raised hand.

“Patience,” he says. “You’ll have your chance to speak with him soon enough.”

Kael’thas moves to a different doorway, and the two disappear through it, leaving Tyri’el alone in the room.  He runs his hands down his face, pulling in a deep breath that does nothing to calm him. The room, despite it’s size, feels suffocating, and he looks around desperately for a distraction. The many shelves of books call to him, silently offering a way to keep his mind from the situation at hand. He moves to a shelf and selects one at random, thumbing through the pages while only partially absorbing anything he reads.

“Mm, Kael, come back to bed,” a feminine voice says from somewhere behind him. “What’s so important that you had to up and leave me in there all by myself?”

Tyri’el freezes, turning slowly to see a raven-haired elf sauntering towards him. She’s wearing only a light robe, tied so loosely it leaves very little to the imagination. She stops mid-stride, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Tyri’el?” She says, taking a hesitant step forward before dashing across the room and slamming into him with her arms tight around him like a vice. “Oh, Belore be praised, I knew you’d come back!”

“Capernian,” Tyri’el says, shifting his arms to awkwardly return the hug. “I—”

His words are cut short as her lips crash against his in a frantic kiss.

“I just knew it,” she repeats, taking his face in her hands. “Solarian said I was a fool for holding out hope, but she hasn’t loved you like I have.”

Tyri’el has no response for her, caught off guard for a moment as she tangles her fingers in his golden hair and pulls him back in for another hungry kiss. He hesitates for a split second before pulling her tight against him with one hand on the small of her back and the other at the back of her neck. She breaks away, dragging at his bottom lip with her teeth.

“I’ve missed you,” she says quietly, running her hands across his chest and looking up at him from under dark lashes. “You’ve missed me, too, haven’t you, dalah’surfal?”

“Yes,” Tyri’el breathes, and Capernian hums in satisfaction.

“Mm, I can tell,” she says, tugging at the waistband of his pants. “Let me show you _exactly_ how much I’ve missed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belore, in my universe, is the quel'dorei/sin'dorei sun god, a counterpart to the kaldorei's moon goddess, Elune. Priests call on him to heal, his name is invoked for protection and in battle, etc. The name is derived from the blood elf NPC line, "Anu belore dela'na", which translates into "The Eternal Sun guides us."


	23. Checkmate

“You’re unusually bold in coming here,” Kael’thas says when they’re alone behind the closed doors of his study. The room is filled with yet more books, though these aren’t neatly arranged on shelves, instead congregated in haphazard piles across the space. The only surface not buried under dusty tomes is the desk at the far side of the room, and even that is covered in papers and various small arcane instruments. A broom sweeps lazily around the room, coming to a halt against the wall with a wave of Kael’thas’s hand. The prince leans back against the desk, folding his arms over his chest as he appraises the other elf. “I’m exceedingly curious to know what gave you courage enough to return here in the face of charges of treason.”

“As I informed your page boy of a guard, I’ve come to play a game of chess.” Beleron meets Kael’thas’s eyes, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “Like we used to.”

Kael’thas holds his gaze for a moment, sighing softly as he moves over to a chest of drawers nestled against the wall. From it he produces a small gilded box, carved from light, almost white wood. The sight of it causes a flux of pain in Beleron’s chest as the other elf turns to face him.

“I must admit,” Kael’thas begins, moving back to his desk, “I only kept this because some part of me had hoped all these years that we might someday have a chance to play again.”

“I hoped much the same,” Beleron says, sitting in the chair in front of the desk and folding his hands neatly in his lap.

“I have a lovely cell waiting for you and Tyri’el up in the Arcatraz, you know.” Kael’thas sits behind the desk, setting down the box and unclasping the ornate latch holding it shut.

“I expected nothing less.”

“And yet you’re here, aren’t you? Surely no grasp at nostalgia would warrant such a risk. Certainly not to your darling nephew.”

Beleron sighs softly, turning over his words in his head before speaking.

“I came here to warn you, Kael.”

Kael’thas snorts, pulling out a folded piece of wood adorned with squares of alternating red and gold stone. He unfolds it, setting it on the desk between them.

“What about?”

“There’s a price on your head. One that both the Horde and the Alliance are willing to pay.”

If Beleron’s words worry the prince, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he throws back his head and laughs, the sound edging towards hysteria before dying out into an amused chuckle.

“You came all this way to tell me that, and dragged Tyri’el with you, no less?” Kael’thas laughs again. “Old friend, I think the fumes in the Undercity have addled your brain.”

“This is no laughing matter,” Beleron says, unsure whether to be concerned or outraged at his friend’s reaction. Kael’thas begins to unpack the chess pieces, carved in intricate detail from matching red and gold stones.

“Oh, but it _is_ , Bel. You’ve come all this way, risked so very much, to deliver to me a warning of what I am already aware.” He chuckles again. “Coming from you, that’s amusingly frivolous.”

“You knew of the bounty?”

“I have spies, same as anyone else,” Kael’thas says, waving his hand dismissively as he continues to dole out the pieces, red for himself and gold for Beleron. “I have no concern for whatever ragtag group of adventurers might find their way here seeking gold and glory.”

“They will come,” Beleron says, watching his friend. “You can kill them if you like, but they will return in droves until the whole might of both factions are marching on your doorstep. You can’t hide here forever.”

“I’m not hiding,” the prince says, gesturing around him. “Let them come. Let all of Azeroth and the Great Dark beyond come to me. It will make no difference. The Burning Legion cannot be stopped. We cannot be stopped.”

“This is not something to be taken lightly,” Beleron says, hands fisting where they rest in his lap. “This is no adolescent show of prowess. They will come no matter how hard you resist, and they will claim your life.”

“I would not have agreed to this meeting had I known you’d only come to spout sanctimony,” Kael’thas says, stopping his sorting to look across the desk at Beleron. “Either shut up and play, or I’ll call the guards now to show you to your new home in the Arcatraz. The boy, too.”

“I didn’t come with plans for a sermon, Kael.” Beleron frowns, picking up one of the chess pieces and turning the familiar figure over in his hand. “I had hoped you’d retained some semblance of sanity and would see this for what it is.”

“And what is that?”

“A plea,” Beleron says, meeting his prince’s eyes with moisture rimming his own. “There is still time. You can still give up this foolish crusade and return to Quel’Thalas. If you don’t…then you condemn yourself to an end easily avoided.”

“I condemn myself to nothing,” Kael’thas says, slamming his fist onto the desk. “I won’t be felled so easily. I have not come this far to be stopped.”

“Listen to me, for once in your life. Listen to reason,” Beleron says, now pleading with the chess piece held tight in his fist. “Your people need their prince, now more than ever. They need their king.”

Kael’thas’s face darkens, eyes falling to the board before him as he begins to arrange his pieces. He’s silent for a moment, only the clinking of stone against stone filling the space between them.

“You were always the optimist, weren’t you? Always the one to see the silver lining amongst the storm clouds.” With his pieces fully lined up like a miniature army, Kael’thas lifts his eyes to meet Beleron’s. “You and I both know I can never be the king my father was.”

“Perhaps not,” Beleron says softly, once again turning the carved stone figure over in his hand. “But you can become the king your people need.”

“To my eyes, Quel’Thalas is filled now with only vengeful ghosts. Some dead, some still yet drawing breath. My people have no need for me.”

“Yes, they do. There are many who have held onto the hope that you will return someday.” Beleron places his piece on the board. “Their numbers include your oldest and once very best friend.”

“You still consider yourself my friend?”

“Of course I do. Otherwise I would never have come to the edge of the world itself to try to save your life.”

“My life has no need to be saved,” Kael’thas says, leaning back in his chair. “Least of all by a traitor calling himself my friend.”

“I did what had to be done.”

“You _abandoned_ me.” Kael’thas’s voice is raised in an instant, hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “You betrayed me and took my people from me, all at the word of some supposed seer, blind and half-crazed from old age.”

“I followed Voren’thal because he knew that your dealings with the Legion would end in nothing but misery and bloodshed for what few of our people remained.” Beleron leans forward, words nearly shouted as he speaks. “He knew what you would become, and he was right.”

“I became what you let me become.” Kael’thas stands from his chair, the air around him warping and crackling with heat. His felfire eyes blaze bright, now narrowed into slits. “If selling my soul to the Legion saves my people from extinction, then I would sell it a thousand times over.”

“You are what you made yourself,” Beleron says, standing as well. “Do not blame me for your shortcomings, and do not leave your people to suffer for them.”

“You will rot in the Arcatraz, along with every other traitorous bastard that has ever been foolish enough to think he can stand in my way.”

“Listen to yourse—”

“No, you listen to me. I have been patient with you thus far because of who you used to be to me. But no more.” Kael’thas moves around the desk with such speed that Beleron has no time to react. The prince’s hand comes around Beleron’s throat, long nails digging into the flesh there deep enough to draw blood. Beleron no longer looks into the face of his childhood friend - instead, it’s the face of a stranger, one driven mad by the demons that whisper in his ear. “I will see every last one of you dead. Every traitor, everyone whose loyalties dried up under your lies. You, your treasonist nephew, your whore sister and her brute of a husband. Everyone who left me will _burn_.”

With the prince’s grip so tight around his throat, Beleron can’t force out words, but the shock is plain on his face. Kael’thas’s chest is heaving, the raw power of his anger swirling around him in waves of heat and arcane flux. The feral look in his eyes is gone all at once, and he blinks as if he can’t recall how he’d come to stand as he is now. His grip loosens and Beleron drops to the floor, gasping and heaving in ragged, cough-choked breaths with his forehead pressed into the carpet.

“Get out,” Kael’thas says, voice shaking, and Beleron looks up at him through the mess of golden hair falling across his face. The prince stares in wide-eyed horror at his hand, at the bright blood dripping down his fingers. He fists that hand and looks down at Beleron. “Get out of here.”

“I…can’t,” Beleron manages, touching his throat to find it slick with blood.

“Leave me,” Kael’thas says, gripping him by his robes and hauling him to his feet.

“I’m not…going anywhere,” Beleron says, and Kael’thas’s hand falls to his side as he backs away, stumbling into the desk behind him. “Not yet.”

“You’ve given your warning, Beleron. You’ve done your duty.” Kael’thas looks at him, and for a moment, they’re just children again. Just two young boys under the weight of the titles and responsibilities they must someday shoulder. “Now leave me to meet my end in peace.”

“You don’t have to meet it. You can still—”

“I have dug my own grave,” Kael’thas says, shaking his head. “Now let me lie in it.”

“Kael—”

 _“Go,”_ the prince shouts. “Leave while you still can.”

“You’ve resigned yourself to die, then?” Beleron asks, approaching him. “Is there nothing I can do to persuade you into returning to Silvermoon? To your home, and your rightful throne?”

“No. Dath’Remar’s legacy…it dies with me.”

“It doesn’t have to.” Beleron puts his hand on Kael’thas’s shoulder. “There are still things to be done, Kael.”

“It’s too late. If the armies of the world will soon be at my doorstep, then the Sunstrider line ends here.” Kael’thas chokes out a sob, turning away from Beleron. “It is for the best. I cannot raise my family’s name from where I have sunk it.”

The prince turns slowly to face his oldest friend, cheeks wet with tears. The sight wrenches deep in Beleron’s chest, threatening to tear away his composure.

“Tell Keldra…tell her I’m sorry. For…for everything. That I…I never—” His words die in his throat with the next sob. “She won’t even care that I’m dead.”

“She will, Kael. It will very nearly destroy her, I think.”

“How would you know? Does she speak so regularly to you about the man who…about the monster who left her to that…that ranger she’s been shackled to?”

“No,” Beleron says, palms coming to rest on Kael’thas’s shoulders. “She hardly speaks your name anymore. I think it pains her too deeply to think of you.”

“Because I was a coward who—”

“No,” Beleron repeats, cutting him off. “Because she misses you. And because…”

He trails off, taking a steadying breath as he fights to keep speaking.

“I must admit, I did not come here with the sole task of warning you.”

Kael’thas looks up at him, brow knit in question.

“I wish beyond measure that she could tell you herself, but with the guillotine hung so loosely at your neck, I’m afraid I must be the bearer of this news.” Beleron sucks in one final breath, meeting the prince’s eyes in an earnest stare. “She told me about the winter our mother died, Kael. She told me what happened between the two of you.”

Kael’thas stares at him, unblinking in shock, before his cheeks color and he drags his hands down his face.

“That was a _very_ long time ago. We were still practically children,” he says, throat strained as he speaks. “She made it explicitly clear that we had made a mistake. That she loved her husband and would return to him as if we’d never…”

“She did return to him,” Beleron says, grip tightening on his shoulders. “But she gave birth to your son.”

Silence falls between them, and Beleron watches his friend closely, seeing the myriad of thoughts and emotions flash across his face.

“What…what are you saying?”

“You know what I am saying,” Beleron says, wanting desperately to look away but keeping his eyes locked with the prince’s. “Tyri’el is your son.”

Kael’thas takes a step back, then another, eyes darting to the door.

“Why…why are you telling me this? Why now?”

“You deserved to know, Kael.”

“I could have gone to my grave and never learned of this. I could have died at peace with my failures.”

“Perhaps. But I could not abide the thought that Tyri’el would have to live on without knowing who he truly is. Without a chance to know you as you truly are.”

“And you saw yourself fit to mete out the truth?” Kael’thas says, a flare of anger returning as a swirl of heat around him. “What gives you the right to judge fate as you have?”

“Keldra confided in me while she still carried your son, and she begged me not to speak of it. I regret it now, but I loved her, so I indulged her request.” Beleron sighs, unconsciously rubbing at the wounds on his neck. “She would have told you herself someday, but time is now too short to let that happen.”

“You…” Kael’thas begins, stopping to sweep everything off his desk in one swift motion. The chess set crashes to the floor, board and pieces alike shattering against the floor into a spray of colorful shrapnel. “Damn you.”

“I am sorry,” Beleron says, eyes cast downward as his shoulders slump. “I wish it could have come under better circumstances.”

“You are more selfish than I could have ever imagined. How dare you come here on the eve of my demise to—”

“This is not about you,” Beleron says, looking up at him with voice raised. “This about the boy in the next room who has gone his whole life feeling he was never good enough, that he was never loved. It’s about him, Kael. Not me, not you...not even Keldra. _Him_.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“Of course not. He’s lived under the impression that he’s unworthy of his father’s love, that he is truly worthless, all for something he had no part in.” Beleron steps forward, posture straightening with conviction. “Tyri’el needs you, Kael. He needs to know who he is, and that he is loved by his real father.”

“I can’t.”

“You _must_.” Beleron grabs the prince by the shoulders, his grip firm and insistent. “Do not leave so many things unsaid to your son as were left unsaid by your father.”

“He will hate me. More so than he already does.”

“That boy has never hated you. He thought of you as nothing short of a god, and I’m certain he still does.”

“He left me, as you did.”

“Tyri’el left because I made him believe he had no other choice.” Beleron’s expression softens, sadness creeping into his features. “That boy would have followed you off the edge of the world and into the Twisting Nether if you’d asked him. I could not let that happen to your son. To the heir to the throne of Quel’Thalas.”

“So you took him from me,” Kael’thas says, his swell of anger drowned now by tears. “You took my son from me. You poisoned him against me when you knew full well who he was.”

“I did what had to be done, just as I am doing now.”

“Did she love me?” The prince asks after a moment, and the sight pushes tears into Beleron’s eyes, clouding his vision.

“Yes, Kael. I don’t think she ever stopped.”

A violent sob wracks Kael’thas’s body, and he sways on his feet.

“I have made such a terrible mess of things.”

“Perhaps,” Beleron says, forcing Kael’thas to look at him. “But you have a chance to fix it. To mend your child’s broken heart so that he might lead in your stead.”

“He’s going to inherit a catastrophe.”

“Yes,” Beleron admits. “But with your blessing, with the knowledge that you leave your kingdom to him with your absolute faith, he will lead his people - _your_ people - out of the darkness that has plagued us.”

“I…”

“Please. You must speak to him. He needs to hear it from you.”

“I will…” Kael’thas trails off, eyes finding the shattered chess set at his feet. He bends and picks up one of the figures, turning it over in his hand. “I will tell him.”

Beleron pulls his oldest and very best friend into a tight hug, knowing deep in his chest that it will be for the last time.


	24. Now And Never

“Okey dokey, here you go,” the female goblin says, tottering over to the table with a tray held up with one hand. She places a drink in front of Violet, and one in front of Mavros, now once again in his elven form. “A Gadgetzan for the lady, and a moonberry fizz for the gentleman.”

Violet thanks her, and the barmaid winks at her with a smirk.

“You kids have fun, now.” With that, she returns to the bar, leaving the two to their drinks. Mavros misses his straw on the first try and plucks it from the drink, throwing it onto the table next to a collection of already-empty glasses. Violet watches him down half of the drink in one gulp, taking only a small sip of her own.

“Now,” Mavros begins, looking up at her with his dark eyes glazed over, “where was I?”

“You were telling me about the time you saved Quel’Thalas.”

“Ah, yes,” he says, nodding woozily. “You ever been there? Of course not, look who I’m talking to. Anyway, it’s the gaudiest place on Azeroth, I swear.”

He continues to chatter, but Violet’s attention is drawn to the far side of the small tavern where a group of what are presumably adventurers have just entered. It’s a group of nine, she counts, all of them various races belonging to the Alliance. They shove two tables together and congregate around them, calling to the barmaid for service. She hurries over, and they proceed to order, insisting on purchasing the very best liquors the establishment has to offer.

“But first send somethin’ ta that pretty little thing in the corner there,” a dwarf in heavy platemail says, gesturing to Violet, who purposely ignores the group and tries very hard to look like she’s enthralled by whatever Mavros is saying. The drake’s words are heavily slurred by now, and his eyelids begin to droop, though he keeps nursing his drink. The barmaid arrives with a flute of something golden and bubbling, eyeing Mavros with a chuckle.

“Fifth one’s the charm, eh? Never had someone need that much valerian root to conk out,” she says quietly, seeing the drake now passed out cold with his cheek pressed to the table. “I get it, though. I’ve had some boyfriends I’ve needed to give the ol’ slip to.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Violet says, discreetly checking Mavros’s pulse to be sure he’s only asleep. The barmaid laughs.

“Good for you, sweetheart. He’s got a pretty face, but not too bright, eh?”

“No,” Violet says, slipping her a few gold pieces. “This from them?”

She nods at the group across the room, and the barmaid giggles.

“Seems you’re popular tonight.” She hands the drink to Violet. “You come find me if you need help ditching any of them, all right?”

“I will,” Violet says, taking it from her, and the goblin saunters off, working on pouring drinks for the group. Violet sips at the drink experimentally, finding that it’s very expensive champagne, probably imported from Quel’Thalas by the unique floral accents. A pang of worry hits her at the thought, and she looks at the clock above the bar. Tyri’el and Beleron have been gone for almost an hour, and though she has no idea what they’re up to inside Tempest Keep, she can’t help but worry.

“We should not be spending so much on alcohol,” a statuesque male night elf says, and the dwarf who’d sent Violet the drink laughs.

“Don’t get yer wee pink pantaloons in a knot, lad. Once we bag that prince’s head, we’ll have more than enough ta pay fer all o’ this and more.”

Violet’s ears perk at his words, but she keeps her expression neutral as she continues to look completely uninterested with their conversation.

“I would still feel much better if we had someone a bit more subtle than all of us to scout ahead. I don’t like the thought of going into what was once one of my people’s ships, now turned sin’dorei deathtrap without knowing what we’ll be dealing with.” It’s a draenei that speaks, his loose cloth robes marking him as perhaps a priest.

“We’ll be fine,” a human says, clapping the draenei on the shoulder. “With you to keep us alive, we have nothing to worry about.”

“I will only keep you alive if you don’t rush ahead like children,” the priest replies. “Remember what happened with the naga?”

Violet listens intently, swirling the champagne around in the flute before setting it on the table with a sideways glance at Mavros, who has begun to snore softly. She snorts, reaching down to unlace the first few grommets on her leather bodice before standing and picking up her drink.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she says, sauntering over to the table. “Which one of you sent me this lovely drink?”

“That’d be me, lass,” the dwarf says, grinning through his beard. “Why don’t ye sit yerself down and join us fer a bit?”

“How kind,” Violet says, setting down her glass and taking a chair from a nearby table. She places it with the back facing the table, straddling it and folding her arms across the top. The position is innocent enough, but it offers the rest of the table an ample view of her cleavage, and none of them look eager to protest. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you need an extra pair of hands right about now.”

“That’s true,” the night elf says, and the others around the table nod in agreement.

“Oh, well isn’t today your lucky day,” Violet says, smiling sweetly and raising her hands before her. “I happen to have two right here. Think you boys could squeeze me into your group?”

“That depends,” the draenei says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you think yourself qualified for such a task?”

“I do,” Violet says, producing her shortswords in a flash with only a flick of her wrists, and everyone around the table startles at the sudden movement. “I’m very good with these.”

She grins wickedly, sheathing them again.

“And I’m very good at being quiet, when I want to be.”

“A rogue?” Another human asks, looking her up and down.

“Among other things,” Violet replies, holding her smile. The group exchange looks with each other, some of them smirking while others simply shrug or roll their eyes.

“Welcome to the party,” the human says, reaching out to offer her his hand. She leans over the chair and shakes it, settling back to sip at her drink. “What do we call you?”

“You can call me anything you like,” Violet says, suppressing a grimace at the way he’s looking at her. “But my name is Ana.”

It’s an easy lie, one she’s perfected over the years, and no one inquires any further.

“Forgive me for doubting you, but how exactly are you planning to get us in there? I don’t think the elves are going to just let us in because we ask nicely.”

“Show her yer doohickey,” the dwarf says, elbowing a green-haired gnome who Violet hadn’t initially noticed.

“Of course,” he says, disappearing under the table to rummage around in his pack. He reappears a moment later, placing a small metal object on the table in front of him. It looks like nothing more than a copper rod wrapped with wire, but it has runes inlaid into the surface that shimmer softly in the low light of the tavern. Violet raises an eyebrow, reaching out for it.

“May I?”

“Certainly,” he says, and the dwarf passes it to her. Violet turns it over in her hands, feeling a faint thrum of energy from within it. She looks over at the gnome.

“What exactly is it?”

“A device of my own creation. I call it a sonic dispellation unit.”

“Some kind of explosive?”

“No, no,” the gnome says, reaching for it. Violet returns it to him, and he fiddles with the top of it until it pops off. He tilts it towards her, and she can see a small switch on the inside of the tube. “It emits a short burst of charged arcane energy, completely dispelling any magically-created wards the blood elves might have on their gate.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he says, beaming. “All I’ll have to do is switch it on and get within ten yards and blam! No more magic on the gate! We can just slip right into the fortress!”

“That’s remarkable,” Violet says, watching keenly as he stows it back into his pack. “So, when do we head out?”

“Soon,” the draenei says, frowning in her direction. “They wanted a drink first.”

“I can get on board with that,” Violet says, standing from her chair and finishing her champagne. “Allow me a refill and we can get on with discussing our strategy.”

Moving over to the bar, she slips another few gold coins from her belt pouch and slides them to the barmaid, who grins at her.

“What’dya need this time, sweetheart?”

“A distraction. I need all of them out of here for a few moments.”

“I think I can do that for you,” the goblin says, stowing the gold discreetly down the front of her bodice.

“There’s gold in it for anyone who helps.”

“I can definitely do that for you,” the barmaid says, grinning as she uncorks a bottle to refill Violet’s glass. “You’re a firecracker. I like you.”

“Likewise,” Violet says, smirking. “As soon as you can manage, please.”

“You got it.”

Violet returns to the table, drawing the group into conversation so the barmaid can slip out of the tavern unnoticed. A few minutes later, and explosion sounds from somewhere outside the compound, strong enough to rattle dust down from the rafters and cause ripples in everyone’s drinks. Violet glances over at Mavros, who is still unconscious and drooling onto the table.

“What in Elune’s name was that?” The night elf says, standing quickly. The rest of the group rises as well, rushing out of the tavern to join the throng of goblins running in the direction of the explosion. Violet moves as if she’s going to follow them, but once she’s alone in the tavern, she rushes over to the gnome’s pack and rifles through it, securing the device under her belt before moving towards the bar. She places a handful of gold on the counter and leaves the tavern with one last glance at the sleeping drake, melting into the shadows outside.

Now invisible to the untrained eye, she makes her way towards the exit of the compound, lacing up her bodice as she goes.

—

Capernian hums in contentment, head resting on Tyri’el’s shoulder as she traces nonsensical patterns onto the skin of his bare chest. They’re lounging on a sofa, her body draped over his while his arms rest gently around her waist.

“Did I mention just how much I’ve missed you?” She asks softly, and Tyri’el chuckles.

“I got that impression, yes.”

Capernian lifts her head, smiling lazily down at him.

“I never stopped loving you, you know.”

"I know,” Tyri’el replies, unable to bear her eyes on him. “Cap, listen, I’m sor—”

“Shh,” she says, silencing him with a short kiss before pulling back to wipe the smeared lipstick from around his mouth with her thumb. “It’s over and done, dalah’surfal. No use wasting your breath on it now.”

Tyri’el frowns, sitting up slowly and working on lacing up his trousers.

“Why the long face?” Capernian asks, running her fingers through his hair to smooth it down. “Aren’t you happy to be back here with me?”

“Yes, but I…”

Her face falls, and she pulls back, searching his eyes with brows knitting together.

“You…you are here to stay, aren’t you?”

Tyri’el remains silent, and Capernian’s frown deepens. She takes his chin and forces him to look up at her.

“Tell me you came back because you want to be here, Tyri’el. Because you know we belong together and that you belong here.”

Tyri’el looks up at her from under stray locks of golden hair, the shame in his eyes silently telling her volumes.

“You didn’t come back for me, did you?” She asks, watching him closely as he closes his eyes and collects his courage.

“I can’t stay, Cap,” he says, throat strained. “I came here to speak to Kael, and then…”

He sighs, dragging his hand through his hair.

“I can’t stay.”

For a moment, Capernian seems lost for words, but her face darkens.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t,” Tyri’el says, voice verging on pleading. “I never said I was—”

“I can’t believe you,” she says, standing from the couch and collecting her robe from the floor. “You just…you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Capernian dons her robe, fumbling furiously to tie it tightly shut. Tyri’el rises from the couch, hands held out in an attempt to placate her.

“You just…you take what you want and you…you don’t even love me, do you?”

“It’s not that simple, Cap,” he says, and she waves her hand to cut him short.

“Answer the question,” she says, eyes blazing brightly. “Do you still love me?”

“I…” Tyri’el begins, frantically trying to sort through his feelings as if an answer will suddenly appear to him after all the years he’d spent questioning himself. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_?” Capernian shrieks, and Tyri’el flinches away. “Did you ever really love me?”

“Yes,” Tyri’el says immediately, willing her to believe him. “Of course I did. But now, I’ve…”

He trails off, unable to shake someone else’s face from his mind.

“What’s her name?”

“What?” He looks up at her, and her nostrils flare with a sharply-exhaled breath.

“I said, what’s her name?”

“Whose name?” Tyri’el asks, taking an instinctive step backwards from her as the air around her begins to crackle with energy.

“Whatever whore you’ve decided can give you more than I can. Who is she?”

“There’s no one el—”

His lie is cut short by a strike to his face. She slaps him hard, her open palm coursing with arcane energy as it connects with his cheek.

“You, Tyri’el Dawnheart, are a terrible liar,” Capernian says, hands now fisted at her sides. “A liar and a…a…”

She grunts in wordless exasperation, watching Tyri’el cradle his cheek where it’s turning red.

“I hope Kael kills you, and I hope it’s excruciating. I was a fool for thinking a traitor like you could ever change.”

“Cap, wait.”

Capernian is already gone, disappearing behind the door she’d entered through, slamming it behind her hard enough that the heavy brass hinges rattle with the force. Tyri’el stands completely still, awestruck as he stares at the door. Something crashes beyond it, and his shoulders sag as he rubs feebly at his cheek. Kicking the leg of the sofa hard enough to move the heavy piece of furniture a few inches across the stone floor, he picks up his shirt from where it’d been discarded and pulls it on over his head. From the opposite side of the room, behind the door his uncle and the prince had disappeared beyond comes another crash, and then muffled shouting. He takes a step towards that door, but all willpower fades and he collapses onto the sofa, head in his hands.

“Idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 'Gadgetzan' is my lame attempt at an Azerothian equivalent of a 'Manhattan' drink, seeing as goblins all talk like they're from New York.


	25. Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Minor self-harm.

“He wishes to speak with you.”

Tyri’el startles, having been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard the door swing open or his uncle’s footsteps approaching him. He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands and looks up, finding Beleron standing next to him looking weary but otherwise unscathed.

“Don’t keep him waiting,” Beleron says, and Tyri’el looks down at his hands.

“I haven’t any idea what to say to him,” he says quietly, flinching inwardly at the way his voice shakes.

“The truth,” Beleron replies, hand coming to rest on his nephew’s shoulder. “Whatever that may be.”

“He’s angry with us, isn’t he?”

“To some degree, yes, though I believe he understands the gravity of the situation at hand.”

“You told him about the bounty, then?”

“He was already aware,” Beleron says, voice as tired as he looks. “He intends to stay and fight.”

Tyri’el exhales through his nose, dragging his hands down his face and standing. His eyes find the collar of Beleron’s robes, and the reddened skin barely visible under the cloth there.

“What did he do to you?” He asks, reaching out to him, but Beleron stops his hand.

“It’s of little importance now,” he says, and Tyri’el frowns.

“Uncle…”

“Go,” Beleron urges, and Tyri’el nods, gathering his courage as he looks towards the door. His uncle pulls him into a hug and he stiffens, unsure of the emotion behind the embrace. Beleron drags in a deep breath, nose wrinkling at the faint scent clinging to his nephew’s clothing, and pulls back. “Capernian was here, wasn’t she?”

“Here, and gone.” Before Beleron can question him, Tyri’el cuts him off. “Later, uncle.”

Nodding, Beleron releases him.

“You have no reason to fear him,” he says, and Tyri’el snorts softly.

“With respect, uncle, I disagree.” With one last uncertain glance at Beleron, Tyri’el moves towards the door. The short walk seems to stretch on indefinitely, and when he finally reaches the door, he pauses with his fingers barely touching the doorknob. A trickle of cold panic creeps up his spine and coils around his throat, and he swallows reflexively, mouth dry and tongue feeling like lead. He forces himself to take a steadying breath, one that does absolutely nothing to calm him.

Regardless of what his uncle said, Tyri’el knows he has every reason to fear the man on the other side of the door. From the time he was old enough to realize who Kael’thas was, he’d always admired the prince’s tenacity and his skill with spell and sword. It’s those same skills that are now turned against him, and he tries to block out the images of his prince slaying droves of undead and demons with little effort, but they persist despite his best efforts.

_Courage - real courage - is not the absence of fear, but rather doing what you must despite being afraid._

Violet’s voice finds him, the words echoing from the memory of the night before. They wash over him like a cool breeze on a blazing summer day, and he moves to grasp the doorknob.

_If the Lightbringer could find reason to believe in me, you can find reason to believe in yourself._

Taking one last deep breath, Tyri’el turns the knob and steps into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The study looks much the same as he remembers it, though the prince’s collection of books has certainly grown. Amongst the clutter, his eyes find the desk at the far side of the room, and a flutter of fear rises in his chest.

Kael’thas sits behind the desk, moving his hands in a rhythmic pattern as almost-intangible threads of energy weave together shards of shattered stone. Pieces of his chess set, the one Tyri’el remembers all too well as the one his uncle would use for hours-long games with the prince, sit broken and scattered across the desk as he weaves a piece back together. Kael’thas looks up, finding Tyri’el standing at the door, and something flashes in his eyes so quickly Tyri’el can’t say for certain that he hadn’t only imagined it.

The prince says nothing, gesturing silently to the chair opposite him on the other side of the desk before resuming his work. Tyri’el obeys quickly, moving towards him and sitting without a word. The man before him is just as he remembers him, still regal and almost ethereal despite being dressed in nothing more than simple robe. It’s exactly like the one Capernian had been wearing, he realizes with a pang of guilt, and tries to ignore the fact that she’d come from Kael’thas’s bedchamber before they’d—

“I didn’t think I would ever see the two of you again,” Kael’thas says, and though there’s bitterness in his words, it’s heavily overshadowed by the hurt barely masked by his sharp tone. He doesn’t look up, instead focusing intently on reassembling his chess set.

“I thought much the same,” Tyri’el says, wiping his palms on his thighs. His heart hammers in his chest so strongly that he’s certain it’s visible through his shirt, and he swallows hard, waiting for the prince to speak again. Kael’thas simply hums in agreement, and Tyri’el watches him work, noticing after a moment that the prince’s hands are shaking as he weaves his magic.

“Your uncle came to warn me of my impending demise, but I must admit, I’m still unsure why you decided to accompany him.” Kael’thas looks up at him, his eyes scrutinizing his face, and Tyri’el begins to feel like a butterfly trapped under glass beneath his gaze.

“I came here to…” Tyri’el trails off, his voice failing him for a moment. Kael’thas watches him intently, and he draws on every ounce of courage he can find within himself. “I came here because I need to make my peace with you.”

“Your peace?” Kael’thas asks, the smooth motions of his hands faltering for a moment.

“If this is truly the last chance we will have to speak to one another, I need you to know that I’ve been agonizing over my choice to leave since the moment I stepped off this ship.” Tyri’el locks eyes with his prince, even though his cheeks are burning and he wants nothing more than to leap form his chair and flee. “I left with the others because I foolishly believed it was the right thing to do.”

Tyri’el sighs, fidgeting with the signet ring on his right hand, the one bearing the crest of the Sunfury family.

“Rather, because I believed my uncle when he told me there was no other way. I trusted him blindly, hoping my choice would appease others, but…”

“Your father,” Kael’thas says through a set jaw, and Tyri’el nods.

“I was wrong,” he says, digging his thumb nail into the flesh of his palm to ward off the tears he can feel just below the surface. “I have always believed in you, Kael, but I cast my lot in with those who lost faith in you. I betrayed you, and I will accept whatever punishment you see fit for my treason.”

Tyri’el speaks with such conviction that Kael’thas is momentarily stunned, the pieces of jagged stone floating between his hands clattering to the desk and ringing out in the silence that falls.

“I was greatly grieved when you left, and for quite some time I wished for nothing but retribution,” the prince says after an excruciatingly long moment, sweeping the scattered bits of stone into a neat pile in front of him. He keeps his gaze low, unable to see Tyri’el’s muscles straining as he fights to keep his emotions in check. “But now I see that you were young, acting on the words of one you trusted not to lead you astray.”

“That does not excuse what I did,” Tyri’el insists, unconsciously leaning forward.

“Perhaps not,” Kael’thas says, dragging his gaze up to meet Tyri’el’s. There’s a wistfulness in his eyes that seems out of place in the current conversation, but he blinks and it’s gone, replaced now by a deep sadness. “But I was young once, too. I know all too well what the folly of youth can do to a man.”

The prince stands, walking over to draw back the curtains covering one wall, and the plush fabric swings open to reveal a wide window looking out over the vast dark expanse of the Twisting Nether. The barest hints of magenta and purple swirl against a sea of black, lightning crackling in the far distance, and the scene seems to mesmerize Kael’thas. He falls silent, and Tyri’el watches him intently, his hands relaxing enough that his thumb no longer digs into his palm.

“I am sorry, Kael,” he says, hesitating for a moment before standing. “I’ve wished every day that I had the courage to return.”

“Would you stay here if I asked it of you?” Kael’thas says, gazing out the window for a moment longer before turning to look at Tyri’el as he comes to stand beside him. “Give up whatever life you’ve made out there and serve me as your uncle will not?”

“I…” Tyri’el begins, stopping himself from emphatically agreeing when some higher part of his conscience reminds him of the life - of the people - he would be leaving behind. “I don’t know.”

“I would never ask that of you,” Kael’thas replies, corners of his lips turning down as he watches Tyri’el struggle with his thoughts. “You’ve too much potential to squander it here.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Tyri’el says, eyes tracing a streak of lightning against the black outside the window.

“You’re a talented mage, and a gifted linguist, Tyri’el.” The prince looks at him in earnest, some heavy hidden emotion in his words. “You’ve always given yourself far too little credit for your abilities.”

“I give it where it’s due.”

“Modesty bordering on self-depreciation,” Kael’thas says with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. “You remind me of your mother in that respect.”

They’re silent for a time, both of them staring out into the Twisting Nether. It’s a familiar silence, one that feels wrong in its ease to Tyri’el. He’d been expecting fire and fury, to be thrown into the Arcatraz to rot for the rest of his life. Something about the prince makes him uneasy, seeing such a lack of his signature temper now, in a situation that certainly calls for it.

“We were to be married, you know,” Kael’thas says finally, and Tyri’el looks sideways at him. “Your mother and I.”

A sound of confusion is the only response Tyri’el can manage, and he turns to look at the prince, eyes wide in questioning.

“Your grandfather made an agreement with my father long before either of us were born,” Kael’thas continues, eyes still trained on the window. “The firstborn of Vyleon Sunfury would wed the firstborn of Anasterian Sunstrider to keep the ancient alliance of the families strong. But, since Beleron came first and I was the only one of my father’s offspring to survive past adolescence, they made an agreement and betrothed me to Keldra when she was born.”

“Why didn’t you marry?” Tyri’el asks, caught between the shock of his words and wondering why Kael’thas is telling him this. Nothing about this has ever been mentioned to him his whole life, not by his mother or his uncle.

“It was my own fault, really. When your mother came of age, I was too busy playing house with the humans in Dalaran.” Kael’thas turns to lean his back against the window, arms still crossed over his chest. He chuckles humorlessly as he continues. “I was too stubborn to face my father after the mess I’d made with him when I told him I had nothing left to learn in Quel’Thalas, and a century and a half later, I finally came back to find Keldra had been wed to someone else in my absence.”

The prince makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, face hardening. He looks over at Tyri’el, once again seeming to appraise him.

“I should have seen it sooner,” he says, shaking his head and closing his eyes.

“Seen what?” Tyri’el asks hesitantly, unsure he likes the sudden turn in conversation. Madness swings both ways, he supposes - violent outbursts at one end of the spectrum, and spouting nonsense at the other - and the Legion’s hold on the prince seems to have brought about both.

“Your grandmother died in the winter, I recall. Keldra traveled from Tranquillien to Silvermoon to help your grandfather find adequate replacements for the duties Seleane held within the military. I traveled home from Dalaran for her funeral.”

“Kael, where are you going with this?” Tyri’el asks, something akin to dread overcoming him. His mother and uncle never spoke at length about either of his grandparents, and when they did, it was nearly always about his grandfather. The only thing he can recall ever hearing about his grandmother was that she died the year before he was born.

“I was only there for a few weeks,” Kael’thas says, opening his eyes. “The next time I saw her was at your aunt and uncle’s wedding. By then, you were nearly three years old.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The gears spin feverishly in Tyri’el’s brain as he tries to make sense of Kael’thas’s words. He knows it’s likely just maddened rambling, but the way the prince looks at him now, as if he’s seeing him for the first time, has Tyri’el feeling faint with worry.

“I swear to you that I didn’t know, or else I would have…I would have…” Kael’thas trails off, hands falling to his sides to rest in fists. He looks at Tyri’el, tears rimming his eyes. “I am so sorry, Tyri’el.”

“Sorry for what?” Tyri’el asks, taking a step back. This is some kind of dream, it has to be. Maybe he got knocked out by the fel reaver, or by one of the guards at the front gate, and he’s imagining this whole conversation. He looks around the room, eyes finally settling back on Kael’thas, and he blinks hard, certain what he’s seeing and hearing is just some colorful false reality.

“Fate is a cruel beast, isn’t it? I’ll be dead soon, and I’ve only just been granted the clarity to see you for what you really are.” Kael’thas moves as if he’s going to embrace Tyri’el, but he stops short and smiles weakly. The sight is strangely disturbing to Tyri’el, who’s taken another step back, hands held out in front of him in anticipation of having to fight some hidden adversary in what is clearly turning into a vivid nightmare. “To see that you’re my son.”

“I’m not your son,” Tyri’el says on reflex, the prince’s words grating against him. “You’re mistaken.”

“I thought much the same at first,” Kael’thas says on a sigh. “But I trust your uncle not to lie about such a thing. I only wish we had more time.”

“I’m not your son,” Tyri’el repeats, seeing a frightening resignation in the man in front of him. “Soven Dawnheart is my father. I’m his son.”

“Soven Dawnheart is a lowborn brute who in no way deserves your mother,” Kael’thas says, his melancholy dissolving in an instant. “In no possible reality could he have sired a prodigy such as you.”

“You’re…you’re mistaken,” Tyri’el says, but he finds his argument slowly dying away. He thinks back on his life, to every subtle act of disapproval on his father’s part, to every time his father told his mother he was _her_ son. The pieces fall into place slowly, then crash together all at once in the realization that Kael’thas is telling the truth. From the way the prince is looking at him, to every time he can remember that he felt his father hated him and looked down on him, it all starts to make a horrible amount of sense. “You’re…”

“I’m so sorry,” Kael’thas says again. “I could have saved you from a life of rejection if I’d only dared to look past my own shortcomings.”

Tyri’el staggers sideways, his knees buckling underneath him at the sheer weight of the realization now fully manifested in his mind. He doesn’t hit the ground, instead guided into a chair by a pair of strong hands. At first, he doesn’t register who’s hold it is on his shoulders, but his attention shifts all at once and he sees Kael’thas kneeling beside the chair, his face alive with worry.

“I…”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Kael’thas says, steady grip never faltering. “Belore knows I don’t know what to say at this point.”

Tyri’el realizes he’s on the verge of hyperventilating and tries to drag in a deep breath, but it’s choked off my a sob hitting him at full force. It’s not really him that’s begun to cry, but rather the piece of him that’s still a small child, the piece that’s always existed as a reminder of the pain he’s felt his whole life. He’s carried them his whole life - the self-loathing, the feelings of inferiority, the confusion he’d felt as a child whenever his very best efforts were never good enough for his father.

No, not his father. Soven. The man he thought was his father.

“I’m staying,” Tyri’el says, tears dying away into a newfound surge of rage.

“What?” Kael’thas asks, his own cheeks wet as he watches the change in his son.

“I’m staying here, with you. You don’t have to ask.”

“You can’t stay here—”

“I have to. I don’t belong out there,” he says, gesturing towards the other room. “I don’t need to follow a man who never…”

He trails off, another thought occurring to him.

“He knew the whole time. My whole life. He knew and he never saw fit to tell me?” Tyri’el looks to the door, knowing his uncle is somewhere on the other side, thinking himself fit to hold his nephew’s life in his hands. “He…”

“Your uncle kept it from you - from both of us - because your mother asked him to.”

“She’s ashamed of me,” he says quietly, tears returning to his eyes. “She would rather I go my whole life not knowing than admit that she—”

“Keldra loves you,” Kael’thas says. “Make no mistake about that. If anything, she kept it from us to save us the chaos such a revelation would wreak upon us.”

“It would have been better than living under his reign,” Tyri’el says, shouting as he stands from the chair. A feverish flush creeps over his skin, sinking into his muscles and causing a ripple of energy to radiate outward. With one motion, a stack of books tumbles to the floor, sending up plumes of dust. He looks over at Kael’thas, who rises from kneeling with his eyes trained on his son. “I will stay here with you. Where I’m wanted.”

“I would like nothing more than to have you here with me, but when my killers get here, they will take your life, too. That is something I cannot possibly abide.” Kael’thas puts his hand on Tyri’el’s shoulder and tugs, turning the younger elf to face him. “You must live, and you must leave this place and do what I cannot.”

“I’m not…I am not a king.”

“Not yet, no.” Kael’thas smiles, a genuine expression untouched by weariness or sorrow. “But it will come, in time. You will lift the Sunstrider name from where I’ve sunk it.”

“I can’t do it without you,” Tyri’el insists, a new sort of panic overcoming him. With the name comes the crown, and with the crown comes…far too much for him to possibly handle.

“You can, and you must.” Kael’thas squeezes Tyri’el’s shoulder.

“Come back to Silvermoon,” Tyri’el pleads, feeling once again like a small child, begging not to be left alone in the dark without a source of light. “You can teach me, and I can—”

An urgent knock on the door silences him, and Kael’thas sighs angrily, releasing his hold on Tyri’el and calling for them to enter. An elf enters, quite out of breath, and approaches them.

“Your majesty, forgive the intrusion, but the front gate has been breached.”

“What? How?”

“We’re not sure, your majesty. The wards have all been disabled and the gate was found wide open.”

“Where are the guards? Why were they not at their posts?” Kael’thas steps towards him, and the elf shakes his head.

“They were found unconscious at their posts. Knocked out, by the looks of it. None of them remember seeing anything out of the ordinary.” He gasps, trying to catch his breath. “None of the other ships are answering our communications, either.”

“Arm the internal defense system. Sweep the entire ship.”

The elf nods, saluting with his fist over his heart before leaving the room as quickly as he’d arrived, not even closing the door behind him in his haste.

“Stay here,” Kael’thas says, making sure the elf is gone before turning back to Tyri’el. “I’ll sort this out quickly and we’ll speak more.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Kael’thas says, stopping Tyri’el when he tries to follow him. “If the gate is breached and a raiding party has somehow bypassed the security matrix, you need to go to your uncle and leave this place at once.”

Tyri’el wants to protest, to say he can hold his own in a fight, but something in Kael’thas’s expression tells him not to argue. He nods, and Kael’thas pulls him into a quick hug.

“I will be back as soon as everything is under control,” he says, leaving without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's never really been any solid references to Kael's family, either his mother or any siblings, so I had to fill it in with some headcanons. There's no way a 3,000 year old king like Anasterian only ever had one kid, so I decided that there's some kind of genetic...thing...that the Sunstriders have that ended up killing all his siblings when they were still 'adolescents' (in my universe, that's anywhere from 0-109 years), and Kael is the only one who made it after his mother died. It's a common "theory" that she died in childbirth with Kael, and Anasterian always had a bit of a strained relationship with Kael.


	26. The Die Is Cast

Violet weaves her way through the labyrinth of a ship, crouching low and making herself as small as possible as she goes. Though the elves that rush past her are completely oblivious to her presence, she doesn’t trust this place not to have some kind is invisible ward system enchanted to see through things like her stealth. The Exodar is equipped with them, that much she remembers from her only visit to Azuremyst Isle, and this ship is undoubtedly draenei in origin, as well.

When the sea of frantic elves becomes too vast to navigate safely, she hunkers down behind a stack of glass-like cubes that hum with energy and cast a soft pinkish glow on the floor and walls. The space she’s in must be some kind of training area, filled with racks of weapons and armor, and the influx of elves arming themselves slowly ebbs until she’s alone in the room for a few consecutive minutes.

Violet sneaks from the room, hearing shouting from the neighboring corridors in Thalassian, but then other voices join in, these in Common and Darnassian. The raiding party is here, having bypassed the gate she’d disabled and left open in her haste, and have begun to engage with the ship's occupants. She hasn’t seen any sign of Tyri’el or Beleron, and she prays they’re either high enough in the ship that she’ll have enough time to find them and warn them, or that they’ve taken care of whatever business they have here and are already back in Cosmowrench.

A beast cries out in the distance, its enraged voice echoing along the hallway Violet travels down, still invisible even in her haste. She’d give anything for a good map right about now, finding herself quickly getting lost in the twists and turns that never seem to lead anywhere productive. There’s no way for her to tell where the prince might be, or how many guards he certainly has with him, and as each new corridor proves just as empty as the last, Violet begins to feel very much like a rat being led through a maze.

Finally, the hallway opens up into a larger room with a grand staircase at the far end, at the top of which is a large set of double doors so ornate that they must have something of importance behind them. Violet quickly makes her way across the space, realizing a moment too late that she’s stepped onto the edge of a loaded pressure plate. The tip of her boot sinks with the trap, and a metallic click meets her ears just before a wave of arcane energy explodes outward and knocks her back a few feet. She lands hard, barely stifling her cry of surprise as the magic stings at her skin and leaves her momentarily disoriented. Her stealth flickers and falls away, and it takes her a moment to gain her bearings again.

Footsteps approach from the other side of the long corridor and Violet disappears again, forcing herself to melt away despite still being dazed from the trap. Whoever it is makes no indication that they spotted her, and she turns towards the source of the footsteps. It’s an elf, his bright crimson robes billowing in his haste. He’s carrying something, his hands cupped gently and held close to his chest as he hurries up the stairs, muttering angrily to himself.

It’s Kael’thas Sunstrider, of that she’s sure. His likeness had been plastered on posters all over the Undercity the previous morning before they’d left, and his flame-like mantle and the three globes of fel energy floating amongst it are impossible to mistake. He’s not nearly as terrifying as she’d expected, but his lithe figure and keen felfire eyes belie the power he’s rumored to posses.

Forcing herself to her feet, Violet follows him up the stairs, barely slipping into the room before he slams the door shut and hurries through the antechamber into the room beyond. Violet takes a moment to catch her breath before moving to the next room. It’s a sitting room of sorts, filled with bookshelves, but Kael’thas hurries through it without distraction, moving instead to another door on the far side. He pushes it open, careful of the object in his hands, and disappears behind it.

“You must go, they’ve already…”

Violet tenses just outside the door, listening for an indication of how many people are within, but she only hears the rustle of fabric as Kael’thas quiets and looks around the room.

“Tyri’el?” He calls, and Violet peeks around the door frame, finding him speaking to an empty room. The prince looks around the space frantically, all traces of composure dying like an ember crushed underfoot. His shoulders sag and he seems to deflate, closing his eyes like he’s physically in pain. Violet takes the opportunity to slip into the room and crouch behind a stack of books piled nearly to her shoulders.

Kael’thas moves over to the desk, gently setting his cupped hands on the polished surface, and places their contents there before beginning to rummage through the drawers. From where she’s crouched, Violet can see that it’s a small, glowing core of some kind, its smooth exterior pulsing like the beating of a tiny heart. It reminds her of a hot coal, though it’s lit up with brilliant shades of yellow and purple and magenta, rather than the dull orange of a piece of burning wood. Tiny plumes of smoke rise from it, glimmering in the same bright colors.

“I know you can still hear me, old friend,” Kael’thas says, pulling a small gilded box from one of the bottom drawers. He scoops the core into his palm again, placing it into the box and waving his hands to seal it with a spell, and holds it to his chest. “Watch over my son as I cannot. Guide him as you did our ancestors, and let him never forget who he is.”

With one last glance around the room, his eyes roving right over Violet’s hiding place and to the door, Kael’thas hurries from the room. Violet follows after him, reaching down to unsheathe one of her swords and creeping up behind him with swift, silent steps. She calls out to the Light, already asking for forgiveness for what she’s about to do.

“You’re quite cunning, I’ll give you that.”

Violet’s advance halts, her entire body held in place by some invisible force. She feels her stealth fade away and her sword clatters to the floor, watching in horror as Kael’thas dissolves like a mirage in front of her.

“However, not nearly as cunning as I am.” The voice comes from behind her, and calm, measured footsteps move around her as the prince saunters into her line of sight. He appraises her like a hawk circling its prey, reaching out with a long-nailed hand to pull down her face scarf. A hint of a frown graces his lips. “That trap should have killed you, human.”

He walks around her in another tight circle, coming to stand in front of her again. His eyes narrow as he studies her face, but his expression soon returns to a state of calm calculation.

“You’ve made it much farther than your comrades have,” he says, his voice melodic in a way that doesn’t match the murderous rage in his eyes. “Your corpse will make a lovely testament to their futile mission, don’t you think?”

Though her mouth is bound by the same spell keeping her body immobile, Violet lets out a wailing scream as pain floods her body. It’s as if fire is being fed into her veins, flowing through every inch of her, searing as it goes. Her muscles heave and contract but she remains frozen, tears streaming down her face in her agony. Kael’thas watches her with no trace of compassion or remorse showing in his almost ethereally beautiful features, instead looking at her blankly like she’s a mediocre work of art. The pain becomes too much to bear and Violet blacks out, her body still held upright and her eyes still open for the few moments she’s unconscious.

“Kael, stop!”

Tyri’el’s voice reaches her as she comes back into awareness, and when the blur lifts from her eyes, she sees him rushing towards her.

“Please, don’t hurt her!”

The pain subsides and Violet gasps reflexively, the spell turning the simple motion into a stifled cough that has no way to escape her immobilized throat. Tyri’el reaches her, hands raised before him, and the spell holding Violet aloft warps and dissipates at his touch. She collapses instantly, body wracked with violent, shuddering coughs, and Tyri’el catches her before she hits the floor. His grip on her burns like hot metal, and she cries out, falling against his chest as he kneels beside her.

“You,” Beleron says, coming to stand beside his nephew. He glares down at her, though she can’t see him with her face is buried in the fabric of Tyri’el’s shirt. “How dare you come here, girl.”

“Look at me,” Tyri’el murmurs, gently lifting her head. His touch still stings, making her whimper. She tries to tell him she’s all right, but her throat is raw and it comes out as nothing more than a pathetically weak groan.

“Am I to understand you’re familiar with this would-be assassin?” Kael’thas asks, looking from where they’re huddled on the floor to Beleron, who seems to be fighting the urge to set something on fire.

“She’s not an assassin. She came to find me.” Tyri’el says, looking Violet over while keeping her weakened body upright. His eyes find her sword where it lies abandoned near them on the floor, his attention shifting back to her after a moment. “You came for me, didn’t you?”

Violet’s whole face colors in shame, deepening her skin even darker than it is from her tears. She looks down and away, glad she can’t form words to lie with. The air leaves Tyri’el’s lungs, and he looks up at Kael’thas. The prince takes in the scene, from Tyri’el’s initial reaction to the way he’s cradling Violet against him, and he blinks in surprise.

“Belore’s wrath,” he says, his previous anger giving way to realization. “He’s gone and fallen in love with a human.”

“Not while I still breathe,” Beleron says, reaching down to grab Violet by the arm and hoist her to her feet. Her pained cry brings Tyri’el to his feet, and he frees her from his uncle and puts himself between them in one fluid motion. Beleron glares at his nephew as he puts his arm around Violet to keep her from falling. “I should have known you were plotting something like this. Treachery is bred into you like a plague.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Tyri’el says, lip curling in stifled disgust. “The raiding party pushes closer every moment.”

“There’s something I must give you before we part ways,” Kael’thas says, reaching into his robes to pull out the gilded box. “Take this with you.”

Tyri’el accepts the box and opens it slowly, eyes widening at the contents.

“He will be reborn in time,” Kael’thas says, placing his hand on Tyri’el’s to close the lid. “He’s bound to you now.”

“Kael, I can’t—”

“There’s no time to argue,” the prince says, turning his attention to Beleron. “Get him out of here, and see that he follows the path I was foolish enough to forsake.”

“I swear it to you,” Beleron says, and they reach out to each other to clasp hands. Meeting his eyes, Beleron speaks again, this time much softer. “You can still come with us, Kael. You can still return to—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Kael’thas says, dropping his hand. He glances at Violet, the corner of his mouth twitching. “The humor of this one isn’t lost on me, even now. Hopefully she serves a better end for you.”

A shout sounds in the hallway, and Kael’thas looks to the door as metal clashes somewhere outside. He pulls Tyri’el into a momentary hug before stepping back and waving his hands like he’s wiping steam from a pane of glass. The sound of ripping fabric fills the room, and he grabs Tyri’el by the arm.

“Wear your heritage like a badge of honor, Tyri’el. Do not forget who you are.”

Tyri’el barely has time to nod before Kael’thas shoves him and Violet backwards. They tumble down onto the dusty purple ground of Cosmowrench, a few muffled words floating to them through the hole ripped in lieu of a proper portal before Beleron joins them. The slit cut in mid air mends itself shut, and their last connection to Tempest Keep is severed.

Violet lies flat on her back, staring up at the shifting cosmic scene above her, unable to move from both weakened muscles and the dizziness brought on by the sudden teleportation. Tyri’el sits up next to her and helps her do the same, brushing the dust from her arms and back.

“Are you all right?” He asks quietly, flecks of purple sticking to his wet cheeks.

“I will be,” Violet says, finding her throat still sore but able to produce proper words. Beside them, Beleron stands, brushing the dust from his robes and scrubbing his cheeks angrily with his sleeves. He turns a hard glare on Violet, towering over her with his shadow cast long behind him.

“You disobeyed me, girl,” he says through ground teeth, his voice low with warning. Violet meets his eyes with an equally hard look, pushing herself to her feet on shaky legs.

“The only one I am sworn to obey is Sylvanas, and you don’t gain that proxy just because you share her bed, _Archmage_.” The title is spit as an afterthought, and Beleron raises his hand as if he intends to strike her.

“Hey, hey, whoa. Fluffy, hey!” A goblin shouts form the far side of the small compound and heavy footfalls approach them. Beleron turns his head to see Hala barreling at him at full speed, her razored fangs bared in a snarl. Violet calls out a short command and the worg skids to a halt, her muzzle stopping only inches from Beleron’s head. She looks at her mistress, who shakes her head, and then back to Beleron in an eerily intelligent wordless warning. A low growl sounds deep in her chest as she takes a few steps backwards and sits on her hind legs with a huff. The stablemaster finally catches up to her, out of breath despite the relatively short distance from the stables. “Hey lady, your mutt here nearly gave me a heart attack bustin’ out of his stall like that. You gonna pay for that, huh?”

Hala looks down at him, lip curling back as her golden eyes focus on him. He swallows hard, holding his hands up in innocence.

“I was, uh…I was kiddin’. Yeah, just kiddin’.” He back sways slowly. “Nice puppy.”

“Sylvanas will hear of this,” Beleron says, and Violet snorts.

“I look forward to that conversation,” she says, turning back to Tyri’el only to find he’s not there. She looks around in panic, finding a trail of footprints in the dust that lead out of the settlement, and follows them without hesitation. Hala pads after her, and she moves around the wall until she finds Tyri’el. He’s standing with one hand on the wall to keep himself upright, looking out over the eastern horizon at the nearly-obscured silhouette of Tempest Keep. Violet comes to stand beside him, hand resting gently on his arm. He doesn’t react, eyes fixed intently on the dark expanse before him.

Hala prods his arm with her nose, and he slings it over her neck, burying his face in the fur there. She stands dutifully still, exchanging a worried glance with Violet, who can only smile through her own tears. It’s far too familiar a situation for her to bear gracefully, and her mind floods with images of a burning city choked with the smell of death. It’s soon so overwhelming that she leans in and presses her face to Tyri’el’s shoulder, unsure whether she’s shedding tears for herself or for him. It’s really both, she supposes, and clings to him like a small child.

Tyri’el startles, turning to look at her for a moment before wrapping his arm around her and pulling her tight against his chest. He presses his cheek to the side of her head, taking comfort in the fact that at least she’s still here. For the first time in quite a long while, he starts to feel that he’s not completely alone in this world.


	27. Alone Together

For a time, the only sound around them in the thin, dust-choked air is the stale howling of the wind. Violet stands with her face pressed into Tyri’el’s shoulder, eyes closed as she takes in slow, deep breaths. Her body aches, every muscle silently protesting her staying on her feet, and she leans into Tyri’el to keep herself upright. His arms around her ward off the chill as he holds her close to him, and she soon realizes that he’s no longer shaking with silent sobs. She looks up, finding him staring out into the Twisting Nether, his eyes heavy-lidded and unblinking. He notices her movement and he drags his gaze from the horizon to meet her eyes, his own softening when their eyes meet.

“I’m sorry,” Violet says quietly, resting her cheek on his chest. She can hear his heartbeat through his shirt, and she takes small comfort in the steady rhythm.

“I’m sorry, too,” Tyri’el replies, cheek pressed the crown of her head, but Violet knows the sentiment isn’t really meant for her. She can almost feel the waves of despair radiating off of him, and she tightens her arms where they’re circled around his chest, hoping to give him some measure of reassurance.

“What happens now?” She asks after a long silence, breath warm on his throat.

“I don’t know,” Tyri’el says, content to let her presence chase away all of the dark thoughts he’s barely keeping at bay. Violet nods, knowing all too well how lost someone can feel after losing someone close to them so suddenly. If she could banish his pain, or take it into herself to give him relief, she would, but she knows nothing she can do will lessen the heaviness on his heart.

“Tyri’el,” Beleron says, standing at the corner of the wall. Tyri’el looks up, tensing when he sees his uncle. The change in him is tangible, and Violet readies herself for whatever confrontation is brewing between the two elves. Beleron’s eyes flick to her, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “We have much to talk about. Alone.”

“You and I have _nothing_ to discuss, uncle,” Tyri’el says, and even Violet can feel the surge of power stirring within him as he speaks.

“Tyri’el…”

“No,” the younger elf replies, breaking his tight embrace with Violet but still keeping one arm around her. “I won’t believe a thing you say. Not now, not ever again.”

“Everything I did was done for yo—”

“For me?” Tyri’el replies, a harsh laugh of disbelief escaping him. He shakes his head, stepping away from Violet and towards his uncle. “No. Everything you’ve ever done has been for _you_.”

“Don’t be so crass,” Beleron replies. “You’re the man you are today because of how I raised you.”

“I am the man I am today _despite_ how you raised me,” Tyri’el spits, closing the gap between them to just inches. Sick heat roils inside of him, churning in waves that crest and crash just under his skin. “I am no longer a tool to be worked by your hands. My life is my own.”

“Don’t walk away from me,” Beleron says, taking Tyri’el by the arm as he pushes past him. Tyri’el yanks out of his grasp.

“I will do as I please,” he says, eyes burning bright with rage. “I pray Belore never brings our paths to cross again.”

With that, Tyri’el is gone, disappearing around the corner to leave Beleron to stare after him. A grunt of exasperation escapes him, and he turns to face Violet.

“Stay away from him,” he says, moving closer. Hala sits up from where she’d been resting, fixing her golden gaze on him with a growl building low in her chest. Violet puts her hand on the worg’s neck to calm her, whispering a short command that quiets her, though she still glares at Beleron as he approaches her mistress. “Go back to the Undercity and never seek him out again.”

“You’re in no position to give me orders,” Violet says, eyes narrowing.

“I am your better, and you will obey me.” Beleron begins to shout, the heat rising from him palpable against her skin.

“You are nothing to me,” Violet replies, teeth bared in an almost animalistic snarl. “I obey only the Dark Lady.”

“And you, girl, are nothing to anyone. You are just a baseborn, meddlesome human, and I will not allow you to taint my nephew.”

“Watch me,” Violet says, moving close enough to his face that their noses almost touch. She pushes past him, trying to tamp down on the sudden flare of rage burning in her gut, but he reaches out to stop her. Violet reacts so quickly that Beleron doesn’t register her movements until he’s pressed face-first into the wall with his arm twisted behind him so hard that any more pressure on her part would surely wrench it out of its socket. Violet stands close behind him, breath hot as she hisses in his ear. “Don’t ever try to touch me again.”

She leaves him there, whistling for Hala to follow her as she once again enters Cosmowrench. Tyri’el is nowhere to be seen, and a quick sweep of the small compound turns up no sign of him. Violet calls his name, and when there’s no answer, she begins to panic. Hala whines next to her and Violet shoos her away, but the worg nudges her shoulder with her nose until she looks down to where her paw scratches at the thick purple dust at her feet. A set of footprints leads out of the compound, and Violet sprints to follow them outside the walls.

Through the dust swirling in the air, Violet squints to catch sight of a figure far ahead on the path. Wasting no time, she swings up onto Hala’s back, spurring the worg into motion. It only takes a handful of minutes to catch up to Tyri’el, and she wonders absently how he made it so far in such a short time. Just as she’s within range to call for his attention, he’s surrounded by a flash of light and disappears into the dust. The panic that had ebbed when she caught sight of him rears up again, and she digs in her heels to make Hala run faster. Tyri’el’s silhouette fades back into sight, and Violet realizes he’s only been teleporting himself a few hundred feet ahead each time he disappears.

The distance he’s put between himself and the settlement seems to satisfy him, and he resumes a normal walking pace, allowing Violet to catch up and dismount. She says nothing, and with her silence, it takes him a moment to realize she’s now walking beside him. He looks over at her, a smile tugging at his lips despite his sullen mood. Hala moves away from her mistress and sidles up next to Tyri’el, snuffling at his hair before falling into step beside him.

There are many things that come to mind for Violet, many questions she’d like to ask, but she keeps them to herself. They walk close enough to each other that their shoulders touch when their steps fall just right, but neither of them mind it in the least. Tyri’el looks over at her occasionally, that same small smile overcoming him before she catches him looking and he returns his eyes to the horizon.

They walk for hours under the swirling heavens, passing a few sets of ruins that were probably villages at one time, before Tyri’el starts to feel weak. He leans on Hala, thinking back to realize that the only food he’s had today was a piece of toast forced on him back at Falcon Watch. It was only this morning, but it feels like it was a hundred years ago. The day’s events overwhelm him all at once and he stumbles, only kept from falling to his knees by Violet’s hands around his shoulders.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” she says, worry clear in her face. Tyri’el nods, trying not to lean too hard against her as they walk a short distance away from the path. She sits him down, digging around in one of Hala’s saddlebags to find a small bundle of wood and a leather pouch. She builds a small campfire, emptying the pouch and striking the contained flint and steel together to start small flames at its base. Tyri’el watches her work, shoulders sagging as the fatigue and lack of food sap at his strength.

“Eat,” Violet says, and Tyri’el snaps awake, finding he’d fallen asleep for a short time, still completely upright. He blinks a few times, seeing a small cookpot bubbling idly over the fire that’s now fully ignited.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, pushing away the bowl she’s offering him.

“Don’t care,” Violet says, picking up his hands and forcing him to take the bowl. “Eat it anyway.”

Tyri’el glares at her in a way reminiscent of a petulant child, and Violet points wordlessly to the bowl with a stern glare. He takes a small bite to appease her, but the moment the food touches his lips, he realizes just how hungry he really is. Half the bowl of grains and smoked meat is gone in a few undignified spoonfuls, and he looks up to find Violet watching him with a worried frown.

“What?” He asks, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. She seems to struggle with her words, taking a drink from her waterskin before speaking.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tyri’el snaps, stuffing another spoonful into his mouth. Violet lets out a soft sigh but says nothing, and they eat in silence for the next few moments. Tyri’el sits up on his knees and ladles himself another serving, sitting back on his heels to begin eating again. He looks down at the food in his bowl, his appetite gone and replaced with a heavy, sick feeling in his chest in the span of a split second. A short, forced exhale through his nose precedes his words. “Kael’thas is my father.”

Violet looks up at him, her spoon dropping from her hand and into her bowl hard enough to splash broth onto her cheeks.

“Was,” Tyri’el amends, setting down his bowl when the thought of taking another bite makes his stomach churn.

“I…don’t understand,” Violet says, wiping the droplets from her face with her thumb.

“Neither do I,” he replies, pulling his knees to his chest.

“I thought your father lived in Shattrath.”

“According to my uncle, he’s not my father.”

“And you believe him?” Violet asks, setting down her bowl. Tyri’el sighs, considering her words.

“Yes,” he says softly, resting his chin on his knees.Violet’s heart sinks, seeing him fold in on himself under the weight of his admission. He looks so small, so lost. She hesitates for a moment before crawling over to him and wrapping her arms around him.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, one hand reaching up for her necklace. She closes her eyes, seeing her mother’s face in the darkness behind her eyelids. For a moment, she’s only a child again, screaming as she’s dragged away from her mother, never to see her again. The campfire’s smoke stings at her nose like the burning planks of a building, and a new pang of guilt hits her hard like an arrow in her chest. “I almost killed him.”

“Would you have?” Tyri’el asks, straightening up to read her reply. “If you’d had the chance?”

“I…yes,” Violet admits, opening her eyes but unable to return his gaze. “But only because I was ordered to.”

Tyri’el grunts with a flash of anger, breaking away from her to stand and walk away from the fire. Violet scrambles after him, coming to stand beside him where he stops, looking out over the barren expanse of the land around them. She wants very much to reach out to him, to comfort him in any way he’ll accept, but she stays quiet with her hands resting at her sides. He scuffs at the ground with his boot, shoving the dust and stone aside in a vain attempt to sate the desire to scream.

“ _Bitch_ ,” he spits through clenched teeth. Violet gasps softly, hand over her mouth at the unexpected sting of venom in his voice.

“Forgive me, please. I…I didn’t know,” Violet says, pleading softly with more apologies caught in her throat. Tyri’el looks over at her, shaking his head.

“It’s not your fault Sylvanas has no soul,” he says, kicking up more dust. “Or that my uncle follows suit.”

Violet breathes a short sigh of relief, and Tyri’el bends down to pick up a small rock resting at his feet. He straightens up and throws it as hard as he can with a grunt of frustration. It clatters into the distance outside the ring of light cast by the campfire, and he begins to search for another. Violet finds one, taking his hand and pressing it into his palm.

“I’m such a fool,” he says, throwing the rock hard enough to tweak a muscle in his shoulder, and he winces and rubs the sore spot. Violet puts her hand over his, wishing the Light would let her soothe his pain. Tyri’el startles at her touch, looking down at her as the firelight dances across his face.

“What can I do?” She asks, and his pulse skips at the concern in her features.

“Just…” He begins, searching for the right words. There are many things he’d like to ask of her, things he’s found himself wanting as their friendship has grown. He wants her to make him forget everything he’s learned, everything that’s ever made him feel broken, but the pleas die in his chest when a voice in his head tells him that’s only wishful thinking. “Just be patient with me.”

“I can do that,” Violet replies with a soft smile. She finds herself a little disappointed for reasons she doesn’t dare try to name, instead tugging him gently back towards the fire. Hala crawls over to them as they sit again, licking gently at Tyri’el’s hand. He scratches the side of her muzzle, grateful for the distraction. His cheeks are warm in a way that has nothing to do with returning to the fire, and he looks over at her to find her staring into the flames as she turns her locket over in her fingers.

“What did you do when your mother died?”

“Word came of the Culling in the middle of supper. I…I shattered every dish on the table.” Violet looks down at the locket as the gilded surface catches the light of the fire. “I wanted to break everything in the dining hall, but Uther held me back. I think I bit him when he wouldn’t let go of me.”

“I understand that completely,” Tyri’el says, picking up a fistful of purple dust to let it slip out from between his fingers.

“It does no good, letting your anger fester,” she continues. “It eats at your soul.”

“Anger is all I have left.”

“Mother told me that there is always hope,” Violet says, putting her hand on his and squeezing gently. “She said that the night is always darkest before the break of dawn.”

“Your mother was naive,” Tyri’el snaps, instantly regretting his words when he hears Violet’s sharp intake of breath.

“Perhaps,” she says, returning her hand to rest in her lap.

“I didn’t mean that.” He reaches out and encloses her hand with both of his.

“I know,” Violet says, managing a tired smile.

“I need to go to Shattrath.” He sighs, looking down at their hands. “I need to look my mother in the eye when I tell her Kael…that my father is dead.”

Tyri’el’s shoulders sag and he hangs his head, pale hair falling in a curtain over his shoulder. Violet reaches out and brushes it away from his face.

“I’ll be right by your side, if you’ll have me.”

“I don’t think I could face this without you,” he admits, and Violet’s cheeks flush. His eyes meet hers in earnest. “You make me brave.”

“You’re already brave, Tyri’el.”

“I seldom feel it.”

“We’ll survive this, you and me,” Violet says, pulling him into a tight hug that’s meant to comfort them both. Tyri’el rests his chin on her shoulder, closing his eyes to savor the embrace. “I promise.”

They break apart after a long moment, but Violet keeps her arm around him as they settle into comfortable silence. Tyri’el rests his head on her shoulder when his eyelids begin to feel heavy, and Violet absentmindedly strokes his hair as she listens to his slow, even breaths. There’s still a dark storm cloud looming over his mind, and his chest still aches like his heart has been dropped from a great height onto sharp rocks, but he finds momentary peace in her arms. Before long, he’s drifting off to sleep.

Violet feels Tyri’el’s muscles go slack and she looks down, brushing away the hair that’s fallen in his face. He’s fast asleep, his breathing shallow and his face calm. She studies him for a moment, wishing she knew how to help ease his pain. Instead, she looks up into the vast expanse of the dark sky, marveling at just how far from home she really is, and she begins to wonder if the Light can hear her all the way out here. A soft prayer escapes her lips, one asking for peace and strength.

“Hold his heart,” she asks, voice barely above a breathy whisper as she presses a soft kiss to his temple.


	28. Monster In The Dark

_Running. Always running._

_The forest is pitch black. Trees pass in blurs in her haste. The full moon looms above the treetops. Its light does not reveal the path before her. Somewhere behind her, howls rise in the darkness. The pack has found its prey._

_Her chest burns. Her legs are weak. She stumbles through the night with no sense of where she’s headed. Away, far away, is the only thing she knows._

_The beast is close. She can sense it behind her, its footfalls echoing all around. Hot breath stings at her neck, and she’s falling. She’s caught. She’s going to die._

_No, not dead. But there’s blood - it’s everywhere. Her hands, her body, dripping to the damp earth._

_The beast is still there. Not dead - no, she’s not that lucky. It whimpers, then falls silent. She’s alone, and she runs._

_Now the world around her is bright. No longer black, but green. A lake stretches out all around, the scent of mud and moss filling her nose. She’s happy, she’s smiling. He’s there with her, holding her hand, kissing it where_ _he’d put the ring. Eyes blue as the sky above._

_Then he’s gone. Everyone is gone._

_No, not gone. Dead. Lying, bloody and still. All her fault._

_Everything is burning. Someone is screaming. She’s screaming._

_The beast is there, shifting in the shadows, always just on the edge of her vision. Golden eyes watch her as she falls, slinking ever closer._

_Cursed. She’s cursed._

_There’s blood in her mouth. It stings at her nose. Not her blood._

_She’s the monster now. She killed them. They died because of her. They will always die._

_Someone is screaming. The elf. Her sister. Her friend. Dead now._

_He’s there, too. The bright one. The one that shines like sunlight. The one that chases away the darkness._

_Why, he asks her. Why are you letting me die? Haven’t you taken enough?_

_She’s sorry. So sorry. But he won’t listen. He can’t listen._

_His blood is on her hands. She likes seeing it there. It tastes good._

_She kneels over him, blood mixing in her kiss. She digs into his chest._

_Skin shreds like silk. Her hands are claws, the hands of a monster._

_Cursed. She’s cursed._

_She holds his heart in those terrible hands. It beats quickly like frightened prey._

_Take it. Take his heart. He gives it willingly._

_He dies. They always die._

_She bites deep._

_His heart stops._

A strangled scream claws its way free from Violet’s throat as she wakes, her limbs numb with fading fear. Her body is shaking, the adrenaline coursing through her veins making her skin hot and damp with sweat. She rolls onto her side, heart pounding in her ears as she presses her cheek to the cool ground underneath her. By now, the fire has died down to nothing more than coals, and her eyes find the body resting on the other side, lying with his face away from her.

“No,” she breathes, nearly leaping across the short space to shake him violently. “Not again. Tyri’el, please wake up!”

“What? What?” Tyri’el says, startling awake at her frantic touch. He rolls over, eyes still bleary with sleep, his hands raised to defend himself against whatever has her so frantic. Looking around, he sees nothing amiss, finding Violet nearly on top of him. She throws back his cloak, pressing her hands to his chest to assure herself that there’s no blood there, and that she hasn’t hurt him.

“Thank the Light,” she breathes, collapsing onto him and crushing him in a hug as tears of relief stream down her cheeks.

“Violet…” he begins, still not completely awake. She’s sobbing into his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt and her body shaking his. “What’s wrong? You’re frightening me.”

“You’re not dead,” she says into his chest.

“No, I’m most certainly not.” Tyri’el sits up slowly, bringing Violet with him, and he shifts her so she’s sitting in his lap. He glances over at Hala as she approaches them, her ears perked and her face surprisingly human in its display of worry for her mistress. She sniffs at them, sitting back on her haunches with her head cocked and a soft whine escaping her. Tyri’el pries Violet away from him, taking her cheeks in his hands. “Easy, easy. Look at me.”

Violet lifts her eyes to meet his, hands still fisted in his shirt like she’s a frightened child clinging to a comforting toy.

“You’re all right,” Tyri’el says, trying to ground her in reality despite not knowing what’s upset her so. She’s still shaking, though it lessens as the adrenaline burns off, and she curls up against his chest with both hands gripping her necklace.

“Just a dream,” she tells herself softly, hearing his steadily-calming heartbeat against her ear. “Just a dream.”

Tyri’el holds her gently, keeping his numerous questions to himself, and waves his hand over the coals to draw out the sleeping flames until they crackle and begin to shed warmth again.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Violet murmurs as she pulls away to smooth at his shirt where her fists have driven deep wrinkles into it. “It was just…it was so real.”

“A nightmare?” He asks, and she nods. “What did you see?”

“I…dreamed that I was the one that…that killed my family.” Violet covers her face with her hands for a moment, sliding aside a finger to peek out at him. “I killed you, too.”

“I’m right here,” he says, watching her shiver at the snippets of dream that push their way back into her mind. Hala leans down to nudge at her mistress with her nose as if to say that she’s here, too. Tyri’el takes Violet’s wrists and gently moves her hands away from her face. “I will listen if it might help you to talk about it.”

Violet shakes her head and wipes at her eyes, but as her shoulders sag, her refusal slowly turns into a nod. She looks up at him, and his heart aches at the sorrow mired in her pale eyes.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she says softly, hands once again finding her necklace. “I’ve tried so hard to forget.”

“Your family,” Tyri’el says, choosing his words carefully, “you said you dreamt you were the one that killed them. Does that mean…you saw them get killed?”

Violet nods, staying silent for a moment as a new wave of tears wet her cheeks.

“You said your family was back in Gilneas,” Tyri’el says when she seems to struggle for words.

“They are. My stepfather and stepbrother, and my aunt and uncle and cousins.” Violet looks at him, eyes pleading. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” Tyri’el replies without a trace of hesitation.

“Just…just hold me while I tell you, and don’t let go until I’m through?”

“Of course,” he says, pulling her in to rest against his chest. His pulse spikes, but he forces himself to focus on her voice as she speaks.

“After my mother died, and after the Greymane Wall closed, I…fell terribly ill. I lost a year of my life to the sickness, a year I barely recall.” Violet sniffs, pausing for a moment to draw in a shaky breath before continuing. “When I…recovered fully, the Light would no longer speak to me. By then, Lordaeron had already fallen to the Scourge, and Uther was dead. The Silver Hand was scattered, and they wouldn’t accept me back even if they were whole. Not when the Light had…”

A sob chokes off her words, and Tyri’el gently tightens his hold on her, resting his cheek on the crown of her head. Violet finds her voice again after a moment.

“I had nowhere to go, nowhere to call home. Attempts were made to bring me back to Gilneas, but King Greymane let no one into or out of the country while the Scourge threat still held.” Her voice is hard, the contempt thick, but it softens as she continues. “So I stayed in Stormwind. The doctor who cared for me…he and his wife took me in. Made me a part of their family. I was happy. I made friends.”

Violet rubs unconsciously at the ring finger on her left hand.

“Every spring, we would go on holiday to Loch Modan. All of us, the whole family. The flowers would just be in bloom, and the briarthorn bushes would bear their first fruits. We’d get so full of mud.” Tyri’el can feel her smile where her cheek is pressed against his chest, but it quickly fades. “We went early one year, for my birthday. No one in Thelsamar bothered to tell us about the gnolls that had moved into the area over the winter, so we went about our holiday like we usually did.”

Her fist grips at his shirt again, this time more from anger, and she speaks through clenched teeth.

“They came just after sunrise. I’d gotten up early to pick berries for breakfast, and I was halfway back when I heard the screams.” She shivers, and Tyri’el begins to rub her arms, though he knows she’s not reacting this way because she’s cold. It’s the only measure of comfort he can think to offer at this point. “My brothers had tried to fight them, but there were too many and not enough time to flee. I came back to find the tents ablaze and my family…they’d been slaughtered.”

“I…” Tyri’el begins, but he quiets himself, knowing nothing he can say will ease her pain.

“There were children. _Infants._ My eldest brother’s son was barely a year old. All of them, torn apart by the beasts. The gnolls were gone by the time I made it back to our camp. There was just so much blood…” A sob hits Violet hard in the gut. “And you know what I did? I ran. Light, some of them could have still been alive and I _ran_. Left them to die.”

Tyri’el holds her as she cries, his own eyes full of moisture, and tries his damnedest not to picture the day Silvermoon fell.

“I don’t know how long I was running, but I came to my senses not far from Menethil Harbor. I don’t remember how I made it that far north. That’s where Thyani found me. She took me in, called me her sister, even though I wasn’t kaldorei.” Violet hiccups and wipes her nose on her sleeve. “She taught me how to defend myself, how to survive out in the wild. Brought me to Ravenholdt and told the Lord that I would make a fine rogue, even though I’d forgotten everything I’d learned from the Silver Hand. She believed in me.”

Violet pauses, words eaten by the ache in her chest.

“You don’t have to keep—”

“Yes, I do. I’ve spent long enough pretending it never happened.” Violet shifts in his lap, and Tyri’el nods but says nothing. “She was fierce. Thousands of years old, but patient and gentle enough to train me, to deal with my volatile moods. I owed her for my life a hundred times over, and how do I repay her? By letting her die, too. Didn’t even fight back when the trolls ambushed us. I was too scared. She bled out by the time they’d gone.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” Violet says, pulling away to sit up and look at him. There’s fire in her eyes that he doesn’t understand, but it sends a shiver down his spine nonetheless. “They’re all dead because of me. My mother, my family, Thyani.”

“Vi—”

“Don’t you get it?” She says, grabbing his shirt and shaking him. “Everyone always dies. Your uncle was right, Tyri’el. I’m like a plague.”

“That isn’t what he said.”

“He may as well have,” Violet says, grip tightening enough that Tyri’el thinks she might rip his shirt. She clenches her teeth hard enough that they hurt and squeezes her eyes shut as the ache in her chest takes her breath away. Tyri’el curses himself internally when he finds he has nothing to say to comfort her - rather, that he can’t hardly think straight with her so close to him like this. After a moment, Violet’s grip on his shirt slacks and she opens her eyes, raising her shaking hands before her to look at them. “Everything I touch turns to ash.”

Tyri’el brushes a tear-soaked strand of hair out of her face. Everything he can think to say is stuck in his throat, and he knows none of it will help her even if he could manage to say something. The only words of comfort that come to him are hollow, the same things he’d heard from everyone after his brother died. The same things he had found himself telling others who lost those close to them.

“I’m cursed,” Violet whispers, smoothing at his shirt as a distraction. “Everywhere I go, everyone I love. They all die. They all leave me.”

Her eyes slowly find his, her face twisted in agony. Tyri’el thinks absently that he would give anything at all to make sure that look never comes over her again.

“You’re going to die, too.” The dream flashes in Violet’s mind as she speaks, and she can almost taste the blood on her tongue and feel the give of flesh shredding between her fingers. Her stomach turns at the thought, and she pulls away from him, hand over her mouth. Before he can stop her, she’s on her feet and moving away from the fire to become a shape in the darkness that the flame’s light can’t reach.

“Violet, wait,” Tyri’el calls, scrambling to his feet with Hala padding silently after him as he searches frantically. He finds her not far away, stumbling blindly in the dark and falling to her knees to empty her stomach onto the barren ground. Her body shakes violently like she’s trying to keep something from escaping, like she had when Sylvanas had struck her for the first time. Behind him, a low warning growl comes from Hala, and Tyri’el turns to look at the worg to assure her that he means her mistress no harm, but stops when he sees that it’s not him that she’s reacting to. Hala’s glowing golden eyes are fixed on Violet where she rests on all fours on the ground, ears drawn back against her head and her lips curled back over her fangs as the growl grows into a defensive snarl. The worg slinks closer, body held low in a predatory crouch as she puts herself between Tyri’el and her mistress.

“No,” Violet says, fingers digging into the dirt. Her voice is deep and ragged, and something about it sets Tyri’el’s heart racing in primal fear. She slams her fist on the ground. “You won’t hurt him!”

Violet ceases her shaking, left only to violently drag in lungfuls of air between sobs. Hala quiets but blocks Tyri’el from getting any closer to her mistress, her hackles still raised. Violet says something he can’t make out, and he shoves past Hala to approach her.

“Don’t,” Violet says as he reaches out to her. He halts, hand just inches from her shoulder.

“Tell me how to help,” Tyri’el says, mind running in circles to make sense of what he’s just witnessed. “Please.”

“Get away from me,” she replies through her tears. Her voice gives him pause, not because it’s filled with malice, but because it’s filled with desperate fear. “Run and don’t look back.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tyri’el insists. He kneels beside her, dying to pull her close and chase away whatever darkness grips her now, but he stays still, only watching.

“I’ll kill you,” Violet says so softly he barely registers her words. “One way or another, your blood will stain my hands.”

“I don’t believe that,” he replies, though he can’t quell the lingering dread at the fringes of his awareness. To clear his head and calm his pulse, he looks up at the sky. “We should get moving. It will be morning soon.”

Violet looks over her shoulder at him, eyes wide and uncertain.

“You still…you can’t still want me to come with you.” She shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

“To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I understand, either.” Tyri’el stands, offering her his hand. She looks at it like it might just be an illusion, but reaches up slowly to take it. He pulls her to her feet, brushing her hair from her face with such tenderness that she can only stare at him in confusion. His eyes trace the lines of her face, finally coming to meet hers. “But I’m willing to afford us a little faith to figure it out.”

“Tyri’el…”

“I’ve lost too much.” He offers a weak smile, grip tightening on her hand. “I can’t lose you, too. Not without a fight.”

Hala whines, looking between them uncertainly. Violet takes a slow step towards her, seeing the fear still held in her eyes, and raises her hand out before her. Hala remains still, judging her mistress's intentions with ears folded back against her head, and takes a cautious step forward. They continue to approach each other slowly until Violet’s fingertips brush against the worg’s muzzle, and Hala leans into her touch.

“I’m sorry,” Violet says, burying her face Hala’s neck. She says something else but her voice is muffled and Tyri’el can’t make out her words. She steps back after a moment, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, and turns to look at him. “Thank you.”

“What for?” He asks, and she pulls him into a hug.

“For everything,” she says with a sniff. “For staying.”

“Violet, I…” As quickly as he begins to speak, he stops himself, all traces of bravery leaving him in the space of a breath. Instead, his arms come around her and he holds her close.

“You mean the world to me,” Violet says quietly, and his breath catches in his throat. “I can’t imagine having to live without you.”

“I…I was just thinking the same thing.”

Violet pulls back, a genuine, if not weary, smile warming her face as she takes his hand in hers.

“Shall we, then?"


	29. When It Rains...

“Light above, does it never cease to rain here?”

Violet pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders, shivering from the bone-invading dampness they’ve been mired in for more than a day and a half. She’s remained dry for the most part, thanks to the enchantments Tyri’el placed on her cloak and boots to arcanely repel the rain from above and the never-ending mud from below, but her lungs still sting from the constant moisture in the air. Much as she hated the bland landscapes and horrid colors of the countries they’ve visited thus far, right now she’d prefer acrid and desert-like to the wet, blue hell that is Zangarmarsh.

“On occasion,” Tyri’el replies, offering her his waterskin and a piece of dried meat from his pack. “But then the insects come out, and believe me, some of them are large enough and more than ornery enough to devour you as soon as look at you. I find I rather prefer the rain.”

Sighing, Violet leans her back against the obscenely massive mushroom they’ve taken temporary shelter under and nibbles on her snack. In truth, she doesn’t really mind the rain, but the constant downpour reminds her too much of Gilneas. She shivers, and Tyri’el drapes an arm around her and draws her close. He’s always warm, she’s found, even when he rightfully should be freezing like her. It’s a mage trait, she supposes, and really doesn’t mind it in the least.

A shape emerges in the rain, moving slowly towards them through the haze. Violet tenses, soon relaxing as Hala reveals herself. The worg plods towards them, massive paws squelching in the mud as she does, and enters the relatively dry space under the cap of the looming mushroom. Her jaws are slick with a barely-noticeable slivery substance, one that smells strangely like blood to Violet, and she takes a moment to shake herself off. Water sprays everywhere, and Violet squeals in surprise, but Hala only looks at her mistress in question and plops down onto the ground to begin licking at her paws.

“Thanks,” Violet says, wiping the water and mud from her face, and Hala grunts at her in response. Tyri’el chuckles beside her, having dodged most of the shower, and uses his sleeve to wipe away the smudges of dirt she’s missed.

“Not too much more of this,” he says, looking from her to the obscured horizon outside their sheltered hideout. “See that mountain?”

He points into the distance, and through the mist and rain, Violet can almost see the outline of a rock formation of some kind.

“The border with Terokkar is only a few hours beyond that ridge, and Shattrath is only a half day’s ride past that. We should be there by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Does it rain there?”

“Sometimes,” Tyri’el says, brushing at her shoulders to renew the enchantment on her cloak. “Not nearly as much as it does here, though.”

“Light be praised,” Violet grumbles, dour for a moment longer before resting her hand on his and looking up at him. A frown plays at the corners of his mouth, but it fades as she touches him, and he meets her eyes as she squeezes his hand. “I’ll be right beside you the whole way.”

“I know,” he says, swallowing the sudden well of emotions that rise in his chest. He knows he’d be hard-pressed to find the courage to venture to Shattrath to face his parents if she hadn’t agreed to come with him, and he still can’t find the rights word to properly express his gratitude for her company. Instead, he just smiles and squeezes her hand in return.

On the ground beside them, Hala whimpers and digs at her muzzle with her paw. Violet looks down, seeing the worg seeming to struggle with something in her mouth, and kneels down beside her. Though her touch on the worg’s face is light, Hala whimpers again, flinching at the contact.

“Did you get something stuck in your teeth?” Violet asks in a placating tone, and Hala’s ears droop as if she’s embarrassed. Violet frowns and pulls off her gloves, gently prying the worg’s massive jaws apart. “Let’s get that remedied, shall we? Light only knows what you found for your lunch out there.”

Though some of Hala’s teeth are longer than her hand and all are razor-sharp, Violet digs around in her mouth, feeling for anything stuck in her gums, but finds nothing. Figuring she might have just cut her mouth on a piece of bone or hoof, she swipes her hand across the roof of Hala’s mouth, hissing as something slices at her skin. She draws back her hand, putting her finger to her mouth to stop the bleeding as Tyri’el kneels beside her.

“What have you gotten yourself into, girl?” He asks, conjuring a small globe of magelight to get a closer look. Hala whimpers again but makes no attempt to closer her mouth. Craning his neck, Tyri’el gasps softly as he lays eyes on the roof of the worg’s mouth.

“What? What’s up there?” Violet asks, leaning sideways as well. The magelight glints off tiny shimmering objects embedded in the soft pink flesh there, and Violet frowns. “Oh, Hala. You should know better than to eat something made of glass.”

“It’s not glass,” Tyri’el says, summoning a chunk of ice to his fingertips that he then presses to part of the torn, bloodied area. After a moment, he tosses it aside and looks to Violet. “Hold her still. I’d like to keep my arm.”

Violet nods, changing her grip on Hala’s jaws to better ensure the worg won’t bite quite so hard. She whispers softly to Hala, trying to soothe her as Tyri’el adjusts his glove and reaches up, pulling loose one of the objects in a swift motion. Hala jolts, and they both pull their arms free before she snaps her jaws shut and scoots a few feet away from them to paw at her snout.

“What is that?” Violet asks, taking the bloodied object from Tyri’el and turning it over in the glow of the magelight. “It almost looks like…a scale.”

“It is,” Tyri’el says, eyes flicking to the area around them. “She must have run into some of the local naga while she was out hunting.”

“Hala,” Violet scolds, and the worg hunches down, ears flat against her head in shame.

“We should be on our way,” Tyri’el says, dispelling the magelight and standing. He offers her his hand and she takes it, whistling for Hala.

“What about the rest of the scales? She’s bleeding pretty—”

“We likely don’t have time to worry about that,” Tyri’el says, nodding in Hala’s direction. “If she made enough of a scene, and I’m certain she did, the naga will have sent trackers to hunt her down.”

“That would lead them straight to us,” Violet says, his words making awful sense now. “How many?”

“Dozens, depending on how many she managed to kill. They don’t take well to outsiders, least of all those who attack their kin.” He looks around again, pushing Violet towards Hala. “And they are excellent trackers.”

“Her saddle,” Violet says, gesturing to the heap of leather and cloth that lies beside them on the ground, having been removed to allow Hala greater mobility while she hunted. Tyri’el shakes his head.

“No time.”

"But our—”

“No,” Tyri’el repeats, locking his fingers together to make a step for her to use as a boost to mount the worg. Violet takes his wrist.

“What about the box your father gave you?”

Tyri’el pales, looking back to the saddle for a moment before dashing over to it to rummage around in the bags attached to it. Through the steady thrumming of the rain beating against the ground, another sound meets Violet’s ears. Hala hears it, too, turning around with a snarl already on her lips.

“Tyri’el,” Violet says, drawing her sword as she squints through the rain. The sound grows louder, something she can only liken to the hissing made by water hitting the surface of heated metal. Where he kneels, Tyri’el finally finds the small gilded box, and a brief moment of calm overcomes him before he stashes it away in one of his belt pouches and looks up.

All around them, shapes emerge through the mist, some stocky and imposing, and others more feminine but still moving with unnatural grace. Tyri’el jumps to his feet, quickly calculating at least two dozen shapes closing in on them. The familiar hisses and clicks of the naga language meet his ears, and from what he can make out, they are far from pleased.

“Any chance you can sweet talk our way out of this?” Violet asks quietly, pulling her scarf to cover her nose and mouth. “Any chance at all?”

“My time spent with Lady Vashj and her naga was too short to fully grasp the language. At best, I might be able to convey that we’re sorry, but not that we didn’t send Hala out looking to kill them.”

“What about Thalassian? Surely they learned something from your people.”

Tyri’el shakes his head, drawing his staff from its sheath as the naga draw closer, spaced in a uniform circle around them.

“Unless Vashj herself is here - something I highly doubt - they won’t understand a word I say.”

“Darnassian?” Violet asks, looking sideways at him with growing desperateness in her voice. “From Illidan?”

He shakes his head again, and she grunts in frustration.

“I hate this place,” she says, raising her swords in preparation for the coming fight. “This whole bloody swamp can go straight to hell.”

The shapes around them finally solidify, and Violet gets her first look at a real naga. She’s seen them in books, and heard them talked about in various places she’s visited, but they’re much more frightening that the pictures or tall tales could prepare her for. Their eerily reptilian eyes glow in the dim light of the swamp, made worse by the forked tongues that slip out to taste the air around them. Some of them are more masculine, standing taller and bulkier than the others, wielding tridents and crude curved blades that are vaguely kaldorei in design. The others among them are distinctly more feminine, possessing four arms rather than the two of their male counterparts. They hold no weapons, instead surrounded by a crackling aura of arcane energy. One of the females raises one of her hands to point at Hala, a disturbing hiss escaping her.

“She…she wants us to give her Hala,” Tyri’el says, and Violet almost growls.

“Like hell we will,” Violet says, proceeding to shout a string of colorful Darnassian profanity at the naga who spoke. A grating wheeze comes from her, something that sounds like a laugh.

 _“The tiny one wishes for a fight, brothers and sisters,”_ she says in ragged Darnassian, and Violet looks over to glare at Tyri’el.

“The _one_ naga who learned,” he says, gritting his teeth and grunting in frustration. “Just my luck.”

 _“We shall give it to you,”_ the naga continues, waving her arms to set her comrades in motion. _“And we will take the beast as tribute to Lady Vashj.”_

Hala snarls and leaps at the nearest naga, nearly biting it clean in half, spilling its silverly blood into the muddy ground. Several swarm Tyri’el, who repels them with a burst of energy and then teleports a distance away to begin casting another spell out of their reach. Violet fights a group of them, finding that they’re quick with their attacks but slow to move any distance towards her. She dodges a trident launched at her, cleanly cutting off the head of the naga who threw it.

As the battle continues, each of them manage to kill a few naga apiece, but they quickly start to become overwhelmed. Hala is bleeding heavily from her mouth, and from a shallow gash in her side, and Violet continues her fevered fighting pace despite cuts on her arms and one opportune blast of magic that hits her square in the chest to knock her onto her back. Tyri’el appears relatively unharmed, freezing the naga that pursue him and teleporting out of their way with practiced ease.

Violet rolls to avoid a trident thrust into the ground where her head had been only moments before, gutting its wielder as she stands. A scream cuts through the din of the fight and she whirls around, vision narrowing to a single pinpoint across the battlefield. One male naga manages to avoid Tyri’el’s ice spell and barrels towards him, knocking him backwards before he has a chance to react. He falls hard into the mud and the myrmidon descends on him, driving his trident deep into the elf’s thigh.

Hala pounces on the creature, biting into its neck to add more silvery blood to her muzzle, and pulls the scaly thing away from Tyri’el, who is thrashing and reaching blindly for the trident still embedded in his leg. A blinding fire courses up from his thigh as involuntary screams rip from his throat. His whole body feels heavy, and he knows he’s been poisoned by the way his vision blurs and warps. The hallucinations set in quickly as his head falls back against the ground, and he watches the blue of the sky around him bleed red and then green, and then a horrifying mix of every color he knows. The cries of battle around him fade out and then come crashing back, amplified loud enough that his ears feel like they might bleed, and the towering mushrooms looming in the sky above him grow to dizzying heights before warping and growing arms and legs that reach toward him. The last thing he sees before his vision spins and he blacks out is Hala rising up to stand on her hind legs, swiping with her front paws to rip several naga to shreds.

By the time the naga are all slain and Violet reaches Tyri’el, her clothes are in ruins and she’s covered in blood and mud, coming to kneel beside him to check his pulse. He’s still alive and breathing, but he’s unconscious and already a sickly shade paler than normal. The trident is still lodged in his leg, and through the tears clouding her eyes, she takes the leather cord holding her hair out of her eyes and ties it around his leg as a tourniquet. Hala comes up behind her, standing in a way that shields them from the driving rain, whimpering softly as she watches her mistress work.

Holding Tyri’el’s leg down with one hand, Violet grips the shaft of the trident with the other and takes a deep breath before pulling as hard as she can. The trident comes free surprisingly cleanly, but Violet curses when she sees the tips of the prongs are still covered in a thick, dark substance. It’s poison, she realizes with a sick weight settling into her gut, and a cry of panic escapes her.

“No,” she breathes, checking Tyri’el’s pulse again to find it already slowed from when she checked only a few moments before. “You can’t die. You _can’t_.”

Standing quickly, Violet slides her hands under Tyri’el’s arms and drags him into the shelter of one of the giant mushrooms before rushing to the saddle left forgotten on the ground. She digs frantically through the bags to find a blanket that she spreads on the ground and drags Tyri’el onto, wrapping it tightly around his shoulders to ward off the chill. Next comes a roll of bandages, but she realizes after she’s wrapped them clumsily around his leg that they’ll slow the bleeding but won’t do anything for the poison but trap it inside him. She rips them off and casts them aside, sobbing as she goes back to the bag to find that she has nothing to counteract the poison, and nothing but her waterskin to clean the wound with. For a moment, she considers using her mouth to suck out the poison like one might treat a snakebite, but seeing how fast it knocked him out by entering his bloodstream, she knows it’s likely it would do much the same - or worse - if she ingested it.

“You’re not leaving me, you hear?” She shouts, shaking Tyri’el’s shoulders despite knowing it won’t rouse him. Her hands find his cheeks and she leans down to kiss his forehead, her tears mingling with the rainwater covering his face. “I’m not losing you. I’m not.”

Though she’s shivering from the cold and wet, and from the adrenaline coursing through her, Violet finds a moment of strange calm as she raises her eyes to the clouded sky. Her hands move to rest on his chest, palms shaking as she looks back to him and closes her eyes.

“Please,” she says, choking out the word. “Holy Light, merciful Light, please save him.”

The Light is there with her, all around her, but it doesn’t touch her. It stays just out of her reach, and she tries with all she has left in her to call it into her being, into her hands to channel into Tyri’el. She can feel it pricking at her skin, waiting for the right command, but everything she can remember proves futile. The image is painfully clear in her mind, the words on the page of her first libram that Uther told her would someday have the power to grant life and purge poisons, and though she shouts them into the uncaring air, the Light still does not answer.

Violet collapses against Tyri’el, hands gripping his shirt as she wails into his chest. She knew this would happen. She knew getting too close to him would irrevocably damn him to a violent end, and she stayed anyway. This is all her fault, and though she’s not digging into his chest and devouring his heart as she had in her nightmare, his blood still coats her hands.

The metallic smell stings at her nose and she chokes, sitting up and looking around desperately for something - anything - she can do to save him. She knows nothing of the herbs native to Outland, and even if she did, the rain is now so heavy that she couldn’t find anything even if she knew what she was looking for. There’s nothing but mud and rain and the corpses of dead naga all around her, and although Hala comes to curl around her and Tyri’el to keep them warm, Violet feels completely alone and utterly hopeless.

It’s then that she spots movement through the mist. Her swords are abandoned across the battlefield, and she finds she has nothing to defend herself with but her bare hands. She rises to her feet, ready to fight to her death to defend Tyri’el, but her posture loosens and she nearly loses her balance as the shape solidifies into a familiar silhouette.

“Light’s love,” she breathes, taking an uncertain step forward and sniffing at the air. Surely it’s a mirage, or maybe the poison had somehow affected her, because she can’t believe what she sees before her. “Redpike?”

“Och, lass,” the dwarf says, slogging through the rain towards Violet. She’s soaked, her cloak hanging off her shoulders in a wet drape that drags in the mud behind her. “What kind o’ bloody pickle ye get yerself into this time, eh? Yer a bugger to find once ye fall off o’ the map, ye know.”

Once inside the shelter cast by the cap of the giant mushroom, the dwarf pulls off her hood to reveal a long copper braid slung over her shoulder. Her emerald eyes appraise the human before her for a moment before moving to the figure on the ground, and to the worg watching her from where she’s curled around him.

“Tell me you have antitoxins with you,” Violet says, running up to her. “I don’t know what they got him with but he’s…”

She can’t finish the thought, looking back to Tyri’el and grabbing the dwarf’s hand to drag her to him.

“Falstad’s beard, lass, don’t tear me arm off,” Redpike says, kneeling beside Violet where she crouches over Tyri’el. “And o’ course I do. I won’t be caught dead without me herbs. Och, this lad sure would be, eh?”

The dwarf finds the wound on Tyri’el’s leg, touching the dark substance still present there. She lifts her glove to her fingers, coughing at the smell before wiping her fingers on the ground and pulling off her gloves. She removes her pack and digs through it, throwing a bundle of cloth at Violet.

“Put those on, lass. Ye look like a bloody drowned rat.”

“You brought me…clothes?” Violet asks incredulously, finding it’s a shirt and a pair of trousers, and also a pair of thick wool socks that look hand-made.

“O’ course,” the dwarf says, pulling a small leather roll from her pack and unfurling it on the ground. “I know ye sometimes wreck yers somethin’ fierce, and right now looks like one o’ those times.”

Violet goes crimson, standing to quickly get herself into the blessedly dry change of clothes before once again kneeling beside Redpike. Hala sniffs curiously at her, but she waves the worg away as she sorts through the various vials and bundles before her.

“How long’s he been out?”

“Ah, I…I don’t know. Only a few minutes, I think.”

“Still breathin’,” Redpike says, feeling Tyri’el’s wrist. “Barely, though.”

She throws a small pouch at Violet, who catches it, and points to the wound.

“Mix those up while I clean this mess,” she says as Violet shakes a small, fragrant bundle of herbs and a small vial of golden liquid from the pouch. Violet obeys, finding the mortar and pestle inside the pack and beginning to grind the herbs and mix in the oil to make a thick paste. Redpike uncorks a skein of water, pouring it over the wound and blotting away the blood and dirt with a clean cloth.

"Tell me this will work," Violet pleads, but the dwarf shakes her head.

“This ain’t good, lass,” she says, sighing and grabbing the mortar from Violet to scoop out the paste and apply it to the wound. She takes a roll of bandages from her pack and wraps them tightly around Tyri’el’s leg, using a small knife to cut away Violet’s tourniquet. “I’m afraid this be mighty above me pay grade.”

“You have to do something,” Violet says, reassuring herself that he’s still breathing be leaning down to put her ear to his mouth. A small gurgle comes from him, and he shifts beneath her. Violet breathes a sigh of relief, taking his movement as a good sign, but it’s quickly replaced by terror as he starts to cough, eyes still closed. It’s a wretched sound, the grating, wet hacking sending a shiver through her, and she looks for a way to help him. He coughs again, this time sounding more like he’s choking, and his whole body shakes as he coughs up a mouthful of fresh blood.

“I was afraid o’ this,” Redpike says, wiping his mouth with the cloth and turning his head to make sure he doesn’t choke. Violet looks at her desperately, eyes wide in fear. “Seen this before. The naga have some bloody brutal poisons they brought with ‘em from whatever hell they spawned from. He’s got a few hours at most.”

“No, he can’t die,” Violet says, rifling through the pack in a desperate attempt to find something to cure him. “He can’t, Redpike. I haven’t even told him—”

“Easy, lass. I dinnae say it were hopeless. Just that yer gonna need some divine help to cure this lad.”

“There’s nothing for miles. The last sign of civilization we passed is hours behind us. Nothing but naga and—”

“Hush yerself,” Redpike says. “I got me friends in high places, remember?”

The dwarf lifts her hands to her lips and blows a shrill whistle. A few moments later, the sound of great wings approaches them, and something descends from the sky to land before them.

“Tawny,” Violet says, and the gryphon responds with an attentive chirp.

“Ain’t a memeber o’ the Wildhammer clan that’ll be caught dead without her gryphon, lass.” Redpike gestures to the gryphon, who trots over, shooting a wary glance at Hala, who perks up but seems to understand the beast means her and her mistress no harm. “Help me get him bundled up tight, yeah?”

Violet nods, taking another blanket from Hala’s saddle and lifting Tyri’el gently so Redpike can wrap him tightly into it. Tawny hunkers down in preparation of a rider, folding her wings out of the way.

“Now, lass, I know ye don’t know squat about the Outlands, so me girl here will do the steerin’ for ye. Up ye go.”

“I’ve never flo—”

“Like I said. Tawny will take care o’ everythin’. Just hold on tight and make sure your boy here dinnae fall off. Ye can handle that, I know ye can.” The dwarf gestures to her gryphon, and Violet hoists Tyri’el into her arms and awkwardly manages to climb up into the saddle. She looks at Hala, who seems very concerned for her mistress at the moment, and Redpike waves her hand in dismissal.

“Don’t worry over yer pup here. I’ll bring her to Shattrath just as fast as she can carry me sorry self to ye.” She reaches up to pat Hala, only managing to reach the worg’s shoulder. Hala whines, looking at her mistress in question.

“It’s all right, Hala,” Violet assures her. “Stay with Redpike. She’ll take good care of you.”

A grunt is Hala’s only response, and she pads up to nudge her nose at Tyri’el’s leg. Violet smiles down at her, though she feels no mirth at the moment.

“He’ll be fine,” she says, though she really isn’t certain of the optimism behind her words.

“Take Moonflower to Shattrath,” Redpike says, petting the gryphon’s neck. She looks up at Violet. “Yer looking for the Shrine of Unending Light, up on the Aldor tier. If ye reach the part o’ the city swarmin’ in blood elves, ye’ve gone too far. Ye get?”

“Yes,” Violet says, adjusting her position so she’s firmly anchored to the saddle while still keeping Tyri’el held tightly to her chest. He’s heavy where he sits with his back against her, held up only by her unwavering grip on him. He’s deathly pale, and deep circles have set in under his eyes. “Thank you, Redpike.”

“Ye know I dinnae need thanks, lass. Ravens take care o’ their own.” She smirks. “Even if they be silly little lasses like yerself. Honestly, ye could have left me a coded message in yer quarters. Took me three bloody days to track down someone sayin’ ye left for this Light-forsaken rock floatin’ in space. And another three to track ye to this wet slice o’ hell. Now get.”

With that, the dwarf swats at her gryphon’s hindquarter and Tawny leaps into flight. Violet hunkers down and tightens her grip on Tyri’el, clinging to the gryphon for dear life. They rise above the tops of the mushrooms and out of the mist, heading for the mountains visible in the distance. Far below, Hala’s mournful cry sounds, and the howl follows them until they’ve faded into the coming twilight.


	30. City of Light

It’s nearly sunset by the time the mountains give way to the lush forests of Terokkar, the vibrant reds and golds of the sky looking almost like they would on Azeroth. Only a few hours have passed since they took to the skies, but the ride seems to stretch out until Violet has no concept of how long they’ve been flying. She doesn’t register the chill of the wind or the changing scenery beneath them - the only thing she’s focused on is the weight of the body in her arms.

Tyri’el has been silent the whole trip, not once coming back into consciousness, and his temperature has risen considerably. Somewhere over the border between Zangarmarsh and Terokkar, he begins to tremble, and by the time the spire of light rising from Shattrath’s center becomes visible on the horizon, his body shakes with erratic tremors. Violet keeps him gripped tight against her chest, one arm around his waist and the other over his chest, bent so she can keep her fingers to his neck to monitor his pulse.

Tawny flies purposefully, and soon the pale stone of the great Draenei sanctuary emerges and spreads out before them. The city itself is massive, from the lower ring to the temple in the middle, and the two tiers that rise several hundred feet into the sky. Hints of red are just visible from one of them, but the Tawny steers herself lower, headed for the tier bathed more in blue. As they come in closer, Violet can see figures milling about, their blue skin marking them clearly as draenei. A short sigh of relief escapes her, and she tightens her hold on Tyri’el as they descend the last few feet and meet the ground.

“The Shrine of Unending Light,” Violet calls to the peacekeepers flanking both sides of the path they land on. One of the draenei gestures to the very top of the tier, to an intricate golden building surrounded by fountains and lush gardens, and Violet utters a short thanks, digging in her heels to spur Tawny back into flight. A few moments later, the gryphon lands again, this time in front of the temple. Violet slides from Tawny’s back, her legs nearly numb from cold and from clinging so tightly to the gryphon to keep her balance, and stumbles to the ground. She calls out to the few occupants of the gardens, struggling to her feet as she does. “Please, I need a healer!”

The robed draenei take notice of the newcomer and hurry towards her, calling to each other in their native language. One of them, a priest by the looks of him, reaches her first, hands already glowing with Light.

“What has happened?” He asks, steadying Violet as she struggles to keep her hold on Tyri’el.

“A poisoned wound,” she replies, nodding to his leg. Several other draenei crowd around them, two of them reaching to take Tyri’el from her. Violet is hesitant to hand him over, but she knows any further delays on her part could very well cost him his life, and she relinquishes her hold. The priest looks over Tyri’el’s leg, a deep frown overcoming him, and he issues instructions to the others present. They begin to move towards the temple as a group, and Violet staggers after them. “Wait, he—”

“Do not worry, young one,” a female draenei says, putting her hand on Violet’s shoulder to halt her. “He is in very good hands.”

“I need to go with him,” Violet insists, pulling out of her grasp and racing up the steps after the group. Two peacekeepers block her path, saying nothing but making their message clear. She growls in frustration, trying to slip past them, but they fully block the entryway and she has no room to maneuver around them. “Let me through.”

“We cannot let you pass,” one of the peackeepers says, and for a moment, Violet contemplates her chances of successfully muscling her way into the temple. 

“Who is that elf to you?” The female draenei asks, coming up behind her. She smiles warmly, waiting for Violet to collect her thoughts.

“He’s…a very dear friend,” Violet replies, cheeks pinking, and she stands on her tiptoes to try to see into the temple beyond the peacekeepers. The draenei smiles knowingly.

“Come. I will take you somewhere to wait for your dear friend’s recovery.” She touches Violet’s shoulder, turning to address the peacekeepers. “She will be my guest for the time being. You will show her all hospitality granted to our allies.”

“With respect, she does not have a sigil. We cannot be sure she has allied herself with us, and she did arrive with one of the sin’dorei--”

“Vannol, I am disappointed in you,” the female says, a stern air overcoming her. “Can you not see she is in need? The Light bids us be kind to all beings.”

“As you wish, High Priestess,” the peacekeeper says, bowing his head, and the two part to allow them passage. “Archenon poros, stranger.”

“Come,” the female says, and Violet nods uncertainly. Behind them, Tawny chirps, and Violet turns back to her.

“Return to your mistress,” she says, and Tawny seems to hesitate, so she points to the horizon. Tawny stamps her feet a few times, looking between Violet and the draenei, before spreading her wings and leaping into flight. Violet watches her go, following the female draenei into the welcoming shade of the temple. Though made of golden metal and fine, smooth stone, the interior of the building is humble and plain, and Violet can feel the gentle hum of the Light all around as they walk. She follows the draenei through the lofty main chamber and down a side hallway into a small room that looks like a simple guest quarters.

“Do forgive Peacekeeper Vannol,” the draenei says, shutting the door behind Violet. “He takes his job very seriously. You are welcome to stay here so long as your friend is in our care.”

“Thank you,” Violet says, running a hand through the tangles in her hair when she realizes how she must look. Her clothes are full of mud, and she’s still damp from the rains in Zangarmarsh. 

“What may I call you?”

“Violet,” she replies, now realizing just how cold she is despite the comfortable temperature of the room.

“Ah, a lovely name,” the draenei says with a smile. “I am Ishanah, High Priestess of the Aldor of Shattrath.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Violet says, dipping into a shallow bow. “I didn’t realize—”

“No need for apologies, young one. I think you have had quite a trying day, yes?”

“Very,” Violet says, rubbing at her arms to try to force some warmth into them.

“Let me tend to your wounds, and then I will bring you to the bathing chambers. A warm bath would do you some good.” Ishanah gestures to the bed, and Violet sits, only now seeing the gashes on her arms and the shallow cuts across her palms. The High Priestess takes one arm gently and begins to heal the skin there, her fingertips glowing gently and leaving a warm tingling wherever they touch.

“When will I be able to see him?” Violet asks, looking up at her.

“Once I am through tending to you, I will visit the infirmary to inquire on your friend’s status. But do not worry, Violet. The priests here have dealt with every type of injury imaginable.” Ishanah moves to the other arm, a small frown touching her lips. “This arm was broken recently, yes?”

“Yes,” Violet says. “About a week ago.”

“Has it been paining you?” She asks, fingers probing lightly where the bone was fractured. 

“No,” Violet replies, thinking back. “I was cared for by a gifted healer when it happened.”

“I can see that,” Ishanah says, nodding to herself as she moves onto the cuts. “May I ask what caused the injury?”

“I was…trying to outrun a fel reaver.”

“The Light smiles upon you, then. Not many can live to boast such a feat.” Ishanah raises an eyebrow. “Were you hurt elsewhere?”

“I broke some of my ribs.”

“I see,” the High Priestess replies, finishing her work on Violet’s arm. “I’d like to check on them to be sure they are healing properly. Please, remove your shirt.”

Violet hesitates, reaching slowly to pull of her shirt. Ishanah says nothing, feeling along her ribcage to check the bones there.

“That is a…unique scar,” the draenei says, gaze drifting momentarily to the raised skin marring Violet’s right side. Violet immediately reaches down to cover it with her hand despite knowing the priestess has already seen it in full. Ishanah frowns. “I did not mean to embarrass you. Forgive me.”

“It’s all right,” Violet says quietly, knowing the sudden pain in her side is completely imaginary.

“I cannot say I’ve seen another like it,” Ishanah continues, finishing her inspection of Violet’s ribs before handing her back her shirt. “If I may ask, what made such a mark?”

“I was…bitten,” Violet says, closing her eyes and telling herself she’s only imagining the smell of damp earth and blood as it fills her nose. Ishanah frowns, but says nothing as Violet pulls on her shirt.

“I could lessen the scar, if you would like,” she offers after a long, heavy pause. Violet shakes her head.

“I appreciate the offer, High Priestess,” she replies, hand finding her necklace as she stands, “but I’ve had many healers of all modalities try and fail to heal it. I’m afraid I’m stuck with it.”  
Ishanah wraps her arms around her in a sudden hug, and Violet startles at the contact. Ishanah steps away after a moment, the same kind smile on her face.

“Come. I will show you to the bathing chambers.” Ishanah leads Violet out of the small room and into the hallway again, this time traveling all the way to the very end and opening the door there. The room inside is warm and filled with sweet-smelling steam, and the High Priestess leads her to the right and through another doorway. Inside is a small pool carved into the rock, filled with clear water that moves gently as if stirred by an invisible current. Ishanah goes to a cabinet against the wall and pulls out a towel and a basket filled with soaps and a comb and hands them to Violet. “Please, relax and clean yourself up. I will find you something dry to change into.”

With her smile never fading, Ishanah dips into a shallow bow and leaves Violet alone in the room. She sighs, rubbing at her side as her thoughts drift back to Tyri’el. The draenei are supremely gifted in wielding the Light, and are possibly closer to it than any other mortal race, but she can’t chase away the worry gnawing at her conscience. Eventually she pulls off her clothes and deposits them unceremoniously into a heap at the edge of the pool before lowering herself into the water. It feels good to be warm again, and the heat relaxes her muscles as she begins to shuck off the mud and blood coating her skin. Some of the blood is hers and some of it is Tyri’el’s, still more of it belonging to the naga, and she has to scrub hard under her fingernails to clear the silvery crust that lingers there. Her hair is a battle to untangle, and after much effort and cursing, she manages to tame it and run the comb through it without snagging.

After she’s clean, Violet leans back against the side of the pool, closing her eyes and letting a soft sigh escape her. The Light is all around her now, and she prays for Tyri’el in the hushed calm of the chamber. She asks that he be healed, and that his injuries are not permanent, but she also finds herself asking that his heart be soothed, as well. He’d been quiet as they traveled from Netherstorm into the Blade’s Edge Mountains, and she hadn’t pressed him to speak his thoughts, hoping her presence might be enough to comfort him. She can’t blame him for keeping his feelings to himself, knowing that she herself had barely spoken of her grief after her mother died, even to Uther when he’d offered to listen. The phantom ache in her side returns, and Violet grits her teeth to keep herself from weeping, but in such a holy place, the loss of her own Light seems fresh and raw now. 

A soft knock on the door rouses her from her thoughts, and a moment later, Ishanah enters the room. In her arms is a bundle of fabric, and she smiles when she sees that Violet is clean and relaxed. Violet tries to return the smile, but it’s lost to the pain in her chest.

“I have spoken to the healers tending to your dear friend,” she says, keeping a polite distance and setting down the clothing she carries. “They will allow you to see him for a few minutes if you would like.”

“I would,” Violet says, reaching for her towel and rising from the water. Ishanah nods and slips out of the room to give her some privacy. Violet hurriedly dries herself and moves to the pile of clothes - a simple top and pants, as well as a soft silk robe and a pair of slippers. Once dressed, she leaves the room and follows Ishanah through the temple and up a spiraling staircase to the second floor. Ishanah stops under an archway, gesturing to the room beyond.

“The priests will be expecting you,” she says, putting her hand on Violet’s shoulder. “Please, seek me out afterward and I will see that you have proper lodgings for the night.”

Violet thanks her and steps hesitantly through the archway. Inside is an infirmary of sorts, filled with beds and alchemy tables illuminated by the sunset that streams in through the blues and yellows of intricate stained glass windows. In a bed far to one side lies a familiar figure, and Violet sprints over and falls to her knees. Tyri’el lies unconscious, but his color is better and even through her tear-clouded eyes, Violet can see the strong rise and fall of his chest. She takes his hand in both of hers, the familiar heat of his skin giving her simple but profound comfort.

“You must be Violet, yes?” A male draenei approaches the bed, the same priest who had first taken Tyri’el when they’d arrived. She nods, and he looks from her to Tyri’el. “He’s been asking for you.”

“He’s been awake?”

“After a fashion,” the priest responds as he comes to stand beside the bed, hands moving to conjure a wave of light that sinks into Tyri’el’s chest. “In his fever, he had moments of consciousness. It seemed his only concern was your well-being.”

Violet lets out a shaky chuckle, a warm feeling replacing the worry at the edges of her mind.

“Will he be all right?” She asks, watching the priest work. “His leg?”

“Your mate will recover, young one,” the priest says, and Violet goes crimson.

“He’s not my…” She stops, swallowing her feeble words.

“He will recover,” the draenei repeats, seemingly unaware of her reaction. “I was able to purge the poison and break his fever, but it will take some time for him to regain his strength. You are lucky you arrived here when you did. Only an hour more and the poison would have killed him.”

“Thank you,” Violet says, the words feeling far too small to fully encompass how grateful she is. He nods.

“You may stay for a little while longer, but after the sun sets, you must go.” As if to anticipate her question, he continues. “You may see him again in the morning.”

With one final wave of healing laid over the sleeping elf, the priest leaves them and returns to his duties elsewhere. Violet rises from kneeling on the floor and sits on the edge of the bed, watching the rise and fall of Tyri’el’s chest to assure herself that he’s really all right. She brushes a strand of golden hair from his forehead and leans down to press a soft kiss there.

“I told you,” she whispers, tears coming again. “I _told_  you. I’ll be the death of you.”

Violet spends the next few minutes in silence, watching Tyri’el as he sleeps, and tries to force away the images that assault her, of him lying prone and coughing up blood. The time passes too quickly, and soon the priest returns to tell her she has to go. She rises reluctantly, casting one last glance at Tyri’el before leaving the infirmary. Ishanah is waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, leading her back to the room she’d first been taken to.

“Get some rest, Violet. Be assured that you are safe and your dear friend will be well cared for during the night.” Ishanah bows at the waist and leaves Violet alone in the room. A plate of food sits on the bedside table, and Violet picks at it absently, knowing she’s really starving but unable to eat more than a few bites without her stomach turning with guilt and remembered panic. 

Sleep proves just as elusive, and though she’s exhausted, she can’t catch more than a few moments of shallow rest before she wakes up in blind terror. Even in a place so steeped with the Light, the darkness of the room starts to feel almost alive, and though she knows it’s only her imagination, she rises from the bed and slips out into the temple. She finds her way outside through a back door and breathes a little easier once bathed in the light of the twin moons overhead. 

Shattrath is a beautiful place, she finds, and her mind seems more at ease as she walks through the tier towards the edge that overlooks the inner ring of the city. The temple in the center of the city radiates with Light, and a soft, crystalline echo filters up to her and soothes the remainder of her unease. She wonders if it’s a naaru making the sounds, remembering a similar experience inside the Exodar, and looks for a way to leave the tier so she can investigate. In the darkness, she spots a lift of some kind, and makes her way over to it. After waiting for a moment, the lift appears, and she steps onto it, marveling at the lights of the city all around as she descends towards the center ring. The sense of peace is much stronger now, and it’s a very welcome change.

Movement catches Violet’s eye as she steps off of the lift, and she glimpses a shape in the darkness. It’s humanoid, and she pretends she doesn’t notice, instead fixing her attention on the temple. The figure is definitely following her, its steps light and practiced in a way that tells her whoever it is has definitely had some kind of training in the rogue arts. They’re too tall and lithe to be Redpike, and they stay far enough away that anyone not trained to spot stealth would have missed them completely. Violet moves towards one of the bridges that spans the ring, ducking into the shadows cast in the moonlight and disappearing into thin air around one of the corners. The figure curses with a distinctly masculine voice as they come around the corner, only to find themselves shoved face-first against the wall.

“Why are you following me?” Violet says, pressing her fingernail into his neck to make him think she has a blade.

“I was sent to find you,” the elf says, a glowing green eye cast back at her. 

“To what end?” Violet asks, looking him up and down without relenting her hold on him.

“My employer wishes to speak with the human who brought her son into the city half dead and delivered him into the hands of the enemy.”


	31. Surrender

Gossip spreads fast amongst the sin’dorei, Violet finds as she steps off the lift and onto the Scryer’s tier. It seems like everyone is staring at her as she trails behind the elf who’s been leading her silently from the inner ring of the city and she keeps her gaze trained low, every muscle tensed and ready to defend herself, but the elves give her a wide berth despite their curiosity. Some of them whisper as she passes, others simply gawk at her, and a few openly shout at her in Thalassian. She doesn’t need to know their language to know their words are not kind.

“Keep up, human,” the elf escorting her barks over his shoulder, and she hurries to catch up. They pass under an archway that opens up into a courtyard, and Violet blinks in surprise to see the manicured space filled with children playing in the soft glow of the lamps illuminating the space. They all stop their games to stare at Violet, who can’t help but stare back. She’d never really pictured blood elves as ever being children, only as centuries-old adults, and she suddenly feels very silly for not considering that they were ever younger than that. The elf continues past the children, and Violet follows closely, trying not to make eye contact with any of them. They enter the building at the far end of the courtyard, traveling through a lobby of sorts and down a side hallway.

“Is this her?” An auburn-haired elf asks from behind a secretary’s desk at the end of the hall, one long eyebrow piqued as she looks Violet over. The other elf nods, gesturing for Violet to follow him to the large, oaken door beyond the secretary. The female grins, snickering as she goes back to her work. “She’s going to eat her alive.”

Violet’s escort chuckles, and she swallows hard, steeling herself with a silent prayer for strength. She prays that Tyri’el’s subdued, patient demeanor is a trait inherited from his mother, as it certainly isn’t something he’d received from Kael’thas, nor from Beleron. Her escort opens the door and ushers her in, the creak of the hinges jolting her from the midst of asking that, at the very least, her death be swift.

The space beyond the door is an office, one that’s strikingly similar to Beleron’s study within the Undercity. Hundreds, likely thousands, of tomes line the shelves that cover every wall up to the domed ceiling comprised of wide, curved windows that let in the light of the twin moons above. A massive brass orrery of Azeroth floats there, its mechanical arms showing the orbit of its own twin moons, the White Lady and the Blue Child, and Violet feels a sudden pang of homesickness at the sight.

“I’ve brought the human, Headmistress.” The elf’s voice brings Violet back to reality, and she looks away from the machine, eyes finding a large, finely-tooled desk across the room. A female elf sits behind it, her golden hair falling in loose waves over her shoulder as she scribbles intently on a piece of parchment. Across the surface of the desk, four separate quills operate of their own accord, going about their enchanted purposes while shedding tiny sparkles of arcane energy. The elf says nothing, instead gesturing with her free hand to a chair on the other side of the desk before going back to her work. “You will show her the utmost respect."

The escort growls the words, shoving Violet towards the chair.

“And if you try anything, Belore help me, I will—”

“That is quite enough, Paerin,” the Headmistress says, still not looking up from the parchment. “I can handle one little human.”

“Of course, Headmistress.” Paerin glares at Violet, pointing to the chair before leaving the room and pulling the door closed behind him. Violet hesitates, glancing around the room before moving to the chair and sitting carefully, as if she expects the chair might shatter under her weight. The elf is quiet for a few moments longer, her lips pursed as she works, and Violet can’t help but notice the expression is very reminiscent of the face she’s seen Tyri’el make while concentrating on something. Finally, she sets down her quill and waves her hand to halt the others, sending them floating back into their box with another quick gesture. She sighs and looks up at Violet, studying the human over the rims of her half-moon spectacles.

“So you’re the one, hm?” She says, removing her glasses and letting them hang around her neck from their jeweled chain. Her lips stay pursed in a thin line, and her eyes blaze bright as they narrow at Violet. “I must admit, I was picturing you much differently. You were made out to be quite a bit more feral when I was informed of your presence.”

Violet shifts uncomfortably under her keen, almost hawkish gaze, silently taken aback by just how much the elf before her resembles Tyri’el. She can also see much of Beleron in her face, the familial resemblance clear even to a human.

“I do apologize for my messenger’s surly demaeanor. Paerin is quite loath to deal with humans since his stay in the dungeons of Dalaran.” The Headmistress frowns. “I’m not terribly fond of them, either.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Violet says, trying to keep herself from wilting under the elf’s sharp words.

“Mm, no need. You haven’t a thing to do with that particular iniquity. I doubt you were scarcely more than a child when it happened.” She looks Violet over again. “You’re only, what, perhaps sixteen?”

“Twenty,” Violet corrects, quickly amending her words. “My lady.”

“Really now?” The elf raises a golden eyebrow, pulling a small book from an inner pocket of her robe, quickly scribbling something before stowing it again. Her attention returns to Violet, her gaze stern but retaining a hint of lingering curiosity. “It’s so hard to tell ages with humans. You die so quickly.”

Violet remains silent, unsure how to respond to that. The elf waves a hand dismissively, rising from her chair to move around the desk and stand before Violet.

“Stand up, child,” she says, and Violet obeys instantly, standing absolutely still as the elf circles around her. She feels like a hare under the predatory gaze of an encroaching lynx, looking around for anything she might use as a weapon should the need arise. Seemingly satisfied, the Headmistress returns to the desk, folding her arms over her chest as she leans back against the edge. Her fel green eyes settle on Violet’s locket for a moment, flicking up to her face in the next instant. “Tell me your name.”

“Violet, my lady.”

“Very well. Now, Violet, how precisely do you know my son?”

“He’s…it’s a long story, my lady.” Violet’s cheeks pink at the meekness of her voice, and the elf lets out a soft sound of annoyance.

“I assure you, I am a very patient woman. Less so when it comes to those who put my son’s life in danger.” She pauses, eyes narrowing. “I will ask you only once more. How do you know my son?”

“I am an agent of Lady Windrunner,” Violet begins, unable to maintain eye contact for more than a split second at a time. “I was sent to ensure your son’s safety.”

The Headmistress piques an eyebrow, a frown touching her flawless features.

“I will not suffer a liar, Violet,” she says, each syllable sharp like a dagger. “I find it exceedingly hard to believe that Sylvanas would welcome a human into her ranks.”

“It sounds bizarre, I know,” Violet says, raising her eyes and forcing herself to keep them locked with the elf’s. “But I am not lying.”

“Assuming for the moment that I believe such a wild claim,” the elf begins, hands falling to her sides to curl into fists. “What, then, brought the two of you so far from the Undercity? I was unaware that Sylvanas had any interest in the Outlands.”

“I…I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, my lady,” Violet says with as much conviction as she can muster.

“And why not?”

The temperature of the air around them rises, and Violet takes a small, instinctive step back at the rage flaring in the other’s eyes.

“The Dark Lady swore me to secrecy. I can’t betray my mission to anyone. Even you.”

“You will tell me what you and my son were sent here to accomplish, and you will tell me _now_.”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but—”

Flames sprout from the elf’s hands, and Violet finds herself rooted in place, a sensation eerily similar to the way Kael’thas had immobilized her when he’d caught her following him.

“You will answer me, or I will incinerate every last piece of you and return whatever remains to the Banshee Queen in a tiny glass jar.” She moves towards Violet, the flames licking close enough to the human that the thin cloth of her robe starts to smoke from the heat. Still, Violet does not speak, somehow more afraid of Sylvanas’s wrath than the firestorm raging before her. The elf spits her words through gritted teeth. “Last chance, human. _Speak_.”

“Tyri’el came to speak to Kael’thas.” Violet chokes out the words, the flames stealing the breath from her and the heat nearly unbearable. Before her, the elf blinks in surprise, and the flames die down to wisps of smoke in the time it takes Violet to drag in a seared breath.

“Kael,” the Headmistress says on an exhale, the fierceness fading from her all at once. She takes a step back, looking at Violet in question. “What could have possibly possessed him to seek out the prince?”

It takes Violet a moment to formulate a response as she watches her. It’s as if the air has been knocked from the elf’s lungs, and her eyebrows knit together in concern.

“Your brother, he…he and Tyri’el…”

“Beleron is here, as well?” She seems to perk at the mention of her brother’s name, though it’s quickly smothered out and replaced with worry. Violet nods. “But why? After all these years…”

“Forgive me, my lady, but…” Violet trails off, searching for the right words. “I believe that this is something best left for Tyri’el to explain.”

Seeming to think on Violet’s statement, the elf nods to herself.

“What happened to him?” She asks, looking up from where she’d been staring at her feet. “My contacts within the Aldor are very limited, but they’ve told me he was nearly dead when you arrived in the city.”

“We were traveling through Zangarmarsh when we were set upon by naga. He was stabbed with a poisoned blade.” Violet rubs at her arms, the heat still clinging to her skin despite the lack of flames. “I brought him to the Aldor and they purged the poison. They promised me he would recover fully.”

“He’s…he’s…”

“Your son is alive, my lady,” Violet says, watching a mother blinking back tears shed for her only living son. She turns away, hair falling in a curtain so Violet can no longer see her face. Violet reaches out, stopping herself from placing a comforting hand, and speaks. “My lady, I—”

“Keldra,” the elf says, sniffing and quickly wiping at her eyes before turning to face Violet. “Please, my name is Keldra.”

“I am so sorry for what happened to Tyri’el. In truth, it’s my fault that he was injured.” Violet blinks back her own tears, telling herself that Tyri’el is alive and well, but the remembered terror is still fresh in her mind. “I wish I could’ve been the one to take the poisoned blade, to spare him from suffering.”

Keldra’s expression changes, though Violet can’t see it from where she’s now staring at her feet, one hand around her necklace.

“You…you care for him, don’t you?”

“Greatly,” Violet says before she can think to stop herself. Her face goes crimson, the color reaching all the way up to her ears. She meets Keldra’s knowing gaze. “I owe your son my life many times over. He…I…”

“Hush,” Keldra says, startling Violet with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I believe I understand now.”

Violet simply nods, unable to argue what she’s implying.

“I would wish to have him here with us,” Keldra says, looking towards the door. “I pray the Aldor will not keep my son from me.”

“I met their High Priestess. I can speak to her on your behalf,” Violet says, and Keldra’s eyes brighten.

“I would be eternally grateful to you if you would,” she replies, moving across the room to take her coat from the rack there. With a wave of her hand, the lamps around the space dim, leaving only the light of the moons to illuminate the room. “Come, we haven’t time to waste.”

Keldra moves to the door and opens it, and both her secretary and Paerin jump away from the door in panic, failing to look innocent upon being discovered. The Headmistress sighs, a slight smile tugging at her lips.

“So sorry to disappoint the two of you, but there will be no conflagrations today, I’m afraid.” Keldra glances apologetically at Violet, motioning for her to follow.

“Forgive us, Headmistress,” the secretary says, peeking past Keldra to see Violet coming up behind her. “We thought—”

“I know very well what you were thinking, Natlayna,” Keldra replies, looking the part of a scolding mother, and the two shuffle awkwardly and find the floor suddenly exceedingly interesting. Pulling the door shut, Keldra dons her coat and looks between the others. “Now, the both of you are to come with us. We will need all the help we can muster if Tyri’el can’t yet walk.”

“Of course,” the elves reply, shooting Violet wary looks as they follow Keldra down the hall and back into the lobby area. Violet walks behind them, struggling to keep up with their brisk pace made with longer legs.

“Keep up, Violet dear,” Keldra says, stopping and waiting when she realizes Violet’s fallen behind. The other two exchange confused looks as Keldra holds out her arm and puts it around Violet’s shoulders as she falls into step with her. They leave the building, and the children populating the courtyard resume their staring, now even more disbelieving when they see their headmistress being so friendly towards the human. Keldra smiles at them as they pass, waiting until they’re beyond the walls and out of sight to stop and raise her arms. “Paerin, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course, Headmistress,” he says, mimicking her gestures as they begin to cast a portal. The lift to the Aldor tier is visible through the shimmering disk, and they all pass through it quickly. Once on the other side, Keldra turns to Violet as the portal snaps shut.

“We cannot accompany you past this point, but we will be waiting here for your return.” Keldra sighs, looking up at the tier as the lift descends towards them. “If you fail to persuade them, I may need to resort to…diplomacy to free my son. Let us hope it doesn’t come to that, hm?”

She smiles warmly at Violet, taking her hand in both of hers and patting it gently. A hint of worry creeps into her otherwise calm expression.

“Bring my baby back to me.”

“I swear it to you,” Violet says, nodding to the others and stepping onto the lift once it’s come to a full stop. It begins to rise a moment later, and she takes a deep breath as it blocks the elves below from sight. She’s grateful to the Aldor for healing Tyri’el, and for their hospitality towards her, but if they won’t release Tyri’el to her, she has absolutely no qualms about using force to bring him back to his mother.

Once the lift has stopped, Violet sprints towards the Shrine of Unending Light, moving past the peacekeepers without issue, though they look at her curiously when they see her haste. She finds Ishanah inside, conversing with a group of priests, and waits a polite distance away until the draenei notices her. Ishanah smiles and excuses herself, approaching Violet with her head inclined to one side.

“It is getting quite late, Violet. Has something disturbed your rest?”

“No, High Priestess. I sought you out because I need to speak with you about my friend.”

“What about him? The priests assured me that they had cured him completely, and that he would make a full recovery.”

“I came to ask you if it would be possible for you to release him from your care earlier than planned. Tonight, that is.”

Ishanah raises an eyebrow.

“Why would I want to do that? He must rest if he is to regain his strength after such an injury.”

“I know, High Priestess,” Violet says, fidgeting nervously. “But…he has family in the city, and they are very anxious to have him in their care.”

“Who exactly is his family, and why do they think they would be better able to care for him than my priests?”

Violet takes a deep breath, looking around. Her knowledge of the bad blood between the Aldor and the Scryers is very limited - Tyri’el explained it to her but she can’t recall one word he’d said at the moment - but she knows that allowing anyone else to hear that they have a wounded Scryer in their temple would be very bad for both Tyri’el and herself.

“He’s…he’s Lady Keldra Dawnheart’s son.”

“Light give me strength,” Ishanah says on a sigh. “I knew that he looked very familiar.”

“Please, High Priestess. I didn’t mean to cause such trouble for you, but his—”

“Quiet yourself,” Ishanah says, and Violet’s eyes flick around the room as she readies herself for conflict. “I have no intention of holding the boy as a hostage, if that is what you fear. Is his mother prepared to transport him presently?”

“She’s waiting at the bottom of the lift.”

Ishanah sighs, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Come, then,” she says, opening them and gesturing for Violet to follow her. She continues to speak as they move through the temple towards the stairs to the infirmary. “I would not normally be so free to release a member of the Scryers to his people, but I am hoping this might be seen as an act of good faith on the part of the Aldor. Much as we have our differences, I would not wish to keep a mother from her only son.”

There’s a hint of sadness in her voice, but it’s quickly put out of Violet’s mind when they reach the top of the stairs. Ishanah calls out to the priest who treated Tyri’el, and he quickly sets down his drink and rises from his desk to meet her.

“Yes, High Priestess?” He asks, eyeing Violet quizzically but saying nothing.

“Is your patient fit to be moved, Khacel?”

“He is stable, High Priestess, but he really must rest.” He watches Ishanah as she moves to Tyri’el’s bedside to check his current state for herself. “What is this about?”

“Find a stretcher,” she says, straightening up. “We are relinquishing him to his family.”

“High Priestess, with all due respect, he needs continued monitoring if he is to recover properly.”

“He will be well cared for,” Violet says, though he doesn’t seem at all convinced.

“I really must protest—”

Ishanah glances around and says something in a low voice, speaking in a language Violet doesn’t understand, though she does pick up Tyri’el’s name in the mix. The priest’s eyes widen, and he looks down at Tyri’el and then back to Ishanah.

“Perhaps we should hold him here, if he is so important to—”

“We are releasing him into the care of his family,” Ishanah says, her tone marking her words as indisputable fact. Khacel nods, looking displeased as he moves away from the bed.

“You must find a healer once you reach the Scryer’s tier,” Ishanah says, hands glowing with Light as she passes them over Tyri’el. “Khacel is right in saying he is recovering well, but I would not feel good about releasing him without knowing he will be monitored.”

“I’m certain we can find someone to check him over,” Violet replies, and Ishanah nods to herself. A few moments later, Khacel returns with two draenei in tow, and they make quick work of moving Tyri’el from the bed onto a stretcher. Khacel and another male draenei carry him through a portal cast by the female accompanying them, and they move quickly to the other side. Ishanah motions for Violet to follow them through, but makes no move to follow them herself. Violet hesitates.

“Go, young one,” she says, smiling kindly. “I trust he will be in good hands with you at his side.”

“Thank you. For everything.” Violet says, dipping her chin in respect. Ishanah bows, smile never fading.

“I am glad to have met you, Violet. The Light shines bright in your soul.” Before Violet can speak further, Ishanah guides her gently to the portal. “Dioniss aca.”

Violet steps through the portal, finding herself once again at the bottom of the lift to the Aldor tier. Khacel and the other draenei hand off the stretcher to Paerin and Natlayna, everyone’s movements stiff and strained. Keldra bends over and touches her son’s cheek, her own wet with tears.

“Thank you,” she says to the draenei, who simply nod and file back through the portal without a word. It closes behind Violet, and Keldra catches sight of her, moving quickly to envelop her in a tight hug. “I cannot say how grateful I am to you, Violet.”

“I’m glad to be of some help,” Violet replies, aware of the eyes of the other elves. “I assured Ishanah that we would find someone to care for him in her stead.”

“Yes, of course,” Keldra says, nodding as she steps back. She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand and gestures to the others. “Take Paerin’s place, please. I need him to help me cast.”

Violet trades places with Paerin, easily lifting her portion of the weight at the end of the stretcher opposite Natlayna. The auburn-haired elf glares at her, but she’s looking down at Tyri’el and doesn’t notice. His color looks better than it did only a few hours ago, even in the pale light of the moons, and she can’t help but smile.

“Quickly, now,” Keldra says, and Violet looks up to find the portal waiting for them. Natlayna walks backwards through it, and they emerge into a dark room that Keldra quickly lights with a wave of her hand to bring the lamps to life. It’s a bedroom, the furniture and bedspread on the four-poster bed covered in a layer of dust, and they move carefully towards it. Once the covers are moved aside, they transfer Tyri’el into the bed, Keldra quickly pulling the blankets up to cover her son.

“Who shall I fetch to care for him, Headmistress?” Paerin asks, removing the stretcher from the bed and leaning it against one wall.

“Find Rhen, would you? I’m sure Tyri’el would prefer him most if he had a say in it.”

“Of course,” he says, bowing at the waist and leaving the room.

“You may go, too, Natlayna,” Keldra says, and the other elf hesitates, looking nervously at Tyri’el.

“Are you sure? I could—”

“You’ve been a great help,” Keldra assures her with a tired smile. Natlayna looks as if she wants to protest further, but she lets out a short sigh through her nose and disappears after Paerin. Violet shuts the door after them, turning back to see Keldra smoothing at Tyri’el’s hair, her cheeks wet again. She straightens up, looking over at Violet. “Sit with him for a moment, would you? I want to change from these clothes.”

Violet obeys, sitting on the bed after a short, tight hug from Keldra, and watches Tyri’el as his mother leaves the room. She studies his face, seeing him looking so helpless, and allows a quiet sob to escape from her. She takes his hand where it rests above the blankets, finding it warm to her touch. Her fingers move from simply being closed around it until they’re laced with his, and she lifts his hand to her lips to press a soft kiss to it.

As she watches him sleep, the weight of a realization settles onto her shoulders and deep in her chest, and she knows that there’s no going back now. No amount of denial, no stalwart refusal, will chase him from her heart.

She can no longer pretend she feels nothing, that there isn’t good reason for her heart to skip when he smiles. No more telling herself she doesn’t crave his presence like a potent drug, no more explaining away the reason he haunts her dreams.

Perhaps it was the surreal comfort of finding another soul just as lost as she was, as he’d said when he’d turned up at the door to her chambers. Maybe it was seeing him on the verge of death, knowing she was only moments from losing him forever, that finally spurred the admission within her.

Whatever it was, and whatever it is, Violet closes her eyes, settling into the peace that comes with her surrender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The White Lady and the Blue Child are the canon names for Azeroth's moons. The White Lady is the larger of the two, and the one that the night elves refer to as Elune.


	32. Waking Nightmare

The soft click of a door shutting reaches Tyri’el through the tail-end of his deep sleep, pulling him into awareness of the space around him. A gentle breeze filters into the room from one of the open windows, the whispering of leaves rising from somewhere far in the distance. With great effort, he opens his eyes and blinks a few times to focus them, finding that he’s in his room - rather, the room his mother keeps for him in her home in Shattrath. He frowns, trying to conjure up a memory that could tell him how he’d gotten here, but the haze around his mind is slow to lift and he soon gives up. Though his limbs are heavy and weak, he tries to sit up, finding himself held down by a gentle weight on his chest. He looks down, finding an arm slung across his chest, and follows it with his eyes to find its owner.

Violet lies curled up next to him, asleep with one hand clutching her necklace and the other resting on his chest, over his heart. Her cheek is pressed against his shoulder, golden hair nearly glowing in the light of the early evening. Tyri’el is caught between the immediate embarrassment brought by such close contact and the wonderment of seeing her so peaceful. He watches her for a moment, his cheeks warm and his heart hammering, before reaching up to wrap his hand around hers where it rests on his chest. Violet stirs at his touch, and he’s afraid he’s woken her and broken the spell of strange calm her presence brings, but she only sighs in her sleep and curls closer against him. A reflexive smile spreads across his lips, and he resigns himself to memorizing every line of her face, every freckle across her nose and cheeks.

Flashes of scaled skin and reptilian eyes invade his mind, and he jerks reflexively at the images, his heart now racing in remembered fear. Memories slowly return, of endless rain against an azure sky, of a naga ambush and a trident impaling his leg, and he sits up in one quick motion to throw aside the blankets and examine his leg. For a split second, he’s afraid that it’s gone, that whatever caused the searing pain he can now very clearly recall had been so damaging that his leg couldn’t be saved, but he breathes a sigh of relief when all he finds is a tender patch of skin on his thigh.

Behind him, Violet grunts, and he looks over his shoulder to find her with her face scrunched up as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. She pushes herself up onto her elbow, blinking a few times before her eyes find him and a soft gasp escapes her. The momentary shock melts away into a wide, relieved grin, and she jumps at him, arms coming around his neck as she buries her face in his chest.

“You’re awake,” she says, voice muffled in his shirt. “Light, I was afraid you’d never wake up.”

“I’m all right. Really, I am,” Tyri’el assures her softly, cradling her head against him.

“If you ever,” Violet begins, raising her head to show a set jaw to contrast the tears in her eyes, “ _ever_ scare me like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

“I believe you,” Tyri’el replies, taking her hand and easing her fingers away from where they’re fisted in the front of his shirt. He covers that hand with both of his, studying it absently before raising his eyes to meet hers. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Scared is…is the biggest bloody understatement of the century. You were _dying_ , Tyri’el. You were coughing up blood, and convulsing, and—”

“Look at me,” Tyri’el says, moving his hands to hold her cheeks. She falls silent at his touch, panic ebbing away all at one. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Tyri’el, I…” Violet says, unsure of her own words. Everything she’d planned to tell him, every word she’d promised herself she’d say the moment he woke up, now completely abandons her, and she can only stare at him and try to remember how to breathe. Tamping down on the anger that flares in her chest from her own cowardice, she forces up a smile. “I’ll go find your mother. I’m sure she’ll want to—”

“Wait,” Tyri’el says, catching her wrist as she rises from the bed. Violet looks back at him, color rushing to her cheeks, and Tyri’el sighs. “Don’t tell her I’m awake just yet. I…I need some time to…”

“All right,” Violet says, nodding and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” he replies, hand still lingering on hers. He turns it over absently, eyes finding the small scratches across her palm, and he looks up at her. “You weren’t…the naga didn’t injure you, did they?”

“Nothing so severe as yours,” Violet says, running her fingers along the scratches. “A few cuts, but Ishanah took care of them for me.”

“High Priestess Ishanah? As in…the leader of the Aldor?”

Violet nods, glancing up to see Tyri’el’s eyes widen.

“I brought you to them. They’re the ones that saved your life.” Violet’s breath catches in her throat, seeing his limp body in her mind’s eye. “Without them, you would have certainly died.”

“How long was I…”

“Almost a full day, from Zangarmarsh to now.”

“And they didn’t try to hold me as leverage?”

Violet shakes her head.

“I convinced them to release you into your mother’s care.”

“Belore’s wrath,” Tyri’el exclaims, dragging his hand down his face. “As if I needed to cause my mother more grief.”

“She’s just relieved to have you here and safe,” Violet says, leaning over to take a glass from the bedside table. “She left this for you. Said it would help you recover.”

She holds out the glass, the shimmering magenta liquid moving around sluggishly inside it. Tyri’el grimaces when he recognizes what’s inside, and Violet quirks an eyebrow.

“What is it?” She lifts the glass to her nose and sniffs it tentatively, recoiling and barely managing not to gag. “Light above.”

“A fortitude elixir. Part nourishment, part archaic punishment,” Tyri’el replies, reaching for the glass. His muscles are still weak and he can’t quite grasp it fully, and the glass slips from his fingers. Violet catches it almost instantly, but a portion of the elixir spills out and splashes across Tyri’el’s shirt like a splatter of paint. He curses under his breath, and Violet hurriedly sets down the glass and moves across the room to the sofa near the window.

“Here,” she says, returning with a bungle of cloth in her hands. “Your mother left these for when you came ‘round.”

Violet hands the clean shirt to him, and he sighs angrily through his nose. He thanks her shortly, struggling to tug his shirt over his head before throwing it in a heap on the ground. Violet gasps, covering her hand with her mouth to stifle her reaction. Tyri’el looks up at her as he unfolds the clean shirt, cheeks darkening as he avoids her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Violet says quietly, sitting hesitantly beside him on the bed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right,” Tyri’el says, though the strain in his voice tells her otherwise. “That’s everyone’s reaction.”

Violet frowns, looking away and down at her hands, and Tyri’el sighs. He rubs at his neck, at the ragged lines of darkened skin there, and an uneasy silence settles between them.

“Do you know what a gargoyle is?” He asks, finally raising his eyes to meet hers. She shakes her head. “They’re minions of the Scourge. Bat creatures with skin like stone, and claws like knives.”

Eyes far away, he runs his fingers up the raised scars. They sit on each side of his neck, three jagged lines that span from under his collarbones to the tops of his shoulders. On his left side, the scars drag up along his neck, almost touching the underside of his jaw. Violet can’t recall ever catching sight of them, but then again, he always wears shirts with high collars, and his long hair usually covers his neck regardless of what he’s wearing.

“When the Scourge invaded Silvermoon…one of the creatures caught me off guard and dragged me away from my post. It…it carried me halfway across the city before I managed to cut myself free of its grasp.” Tyri’el shudders, and Violet puts her hand on his knee in an attempt to comfort him. “I landed in the fountain in the Court of the Sun. Broke my leg and my arm, and knocked my head hard enough to put me out instantly. I would’ve drowned had Hathir not chased the gargoyle and seen me fall. He dragged me out and…”

Tyri’el shakes his head, pulling on the clean shirt and flipping up the collar to cover his neck.

“The priest who healed me said the scars would fade, but something that evil…so steeped in darkness…it leaves a mark that even the Light can’t purge.” Tyri’el looks up at Violet, expecting to see disgust on her face, but instead, he finds something akin to understanding.

“Did it…change you?” She asks, balling up her fists to keep from sating the urge to clutch at the scar on her side. “Being left with such a mark?”

“We were all changed in those short few days,” Tyri’el replies, reaching for the glass on the bedside table. Violet helps steady the glass, holding his hands as he throws back his head and downs the elixir in one go. He coughs, wiping his mouth as Violet sets down the glass. “But I was never scared of heights before that day.”

Almost immediately, the magic in the elixir returns some of Tyri’el’s strength, and he pushes off the blankets and moves to stand. Violet jumps up and helps him, hands hovering at his shoulders in case his legs fail him, but he easily keeps himself upright.

“I suppose I should find my mother,” he says, frown returning. “She needs to know what happened to Kael.”

He moves towards the door, stopping just before turning the doorknob, and turns back to look at Violet.

“I…I don’t think I can do this,” he says, shoulders sagging. “I can’t…how does one even begin to broach a subject such as this?”

“I can’t say,” Violet replies, coming to stand before him. She smoothes at his hair, taming the locks disturbed by his sleep, and settles her hands on his shoulders. “I never had a father to worry over.”

“I wish I didn’t,” Tyri’el admits, studying her as she fusses with the lacing on his shirt.

“Your mother loves you,” Violet says. “She very nearly set me on fire when she thought I had something to do with your near-death experience.”

“That happens to you often, doesn’t it?” He asks, a hint of smirk tugging at his lips.

“It was never a problem before I met you and your family,” she replies, smirking up at him. “But I’m certain she didn’t keep it from you out of malice. I think it was to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?”

“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. “I’ve only ever been on one end of a mother’s love for her child.”

Voices rise from the other side of the door, and Tyri’el runs a hand through his hair and lets out a long, shaky breath. He looks at Violet, silent pleading in his eyes, and takes her hand.

“Come with me?”

“Only until you think it the right time for the two of you to talk. I have no business being part of that conversation.”

Tyri’el nods, somewhat dismayed by her answer, and opens the door. They move through the hallway, the smell of spices and cooking meat wafting up to them, and finally come to a stairwell that they then descend to the lower floor. They emerge into a small foyer, the sounds of conversation coming from across the house, and Tyri’el pauses, trying to conjure up even an ounce of courage. Violet squeezes his hand and offers a smile she hopes is reassuring, and he returns it, leading her across the house and into the kitchen.

Keldra stands at the hearth, stirring the cookpot that hangs over the fire, and at the small table on the other side of the room, Beleron sits with another elf, both of them speaking idly as they work at peeling potatoes. Conversation halts and the room goes quiet for a moment when Tyri’el and Violet enter. Beleron’s eyes immediately find their clasped hands, and the fire in the hearth snaps angrily in response. Keldra looks up and gasps, dropping her ladle and rushing across the small space to crush her son in a hug.

“Sundrop,” she cries into his neck, lifting her head to smother his cheeks with tear-stained kisses. “Belore be praised, you’re awake!”

“I’m fine, mother,” Tyri’el says, returning her hug stiffly and looking sideways at Violet. She squeezes his hand before releasing it, stepping away from them to stand awkwardly against the wall. Beleron glares at her, fist tightening around the handle of his knife, and she takes an instinctive step away from him.

“I’m glad to see you up and about, Tyri’el,” the other elf says, wiping his hands on a towel and standing from the table.

“Rhen?” Tyri’el says, looking from the copper-haired elf to his mother. “You called him to care for me?”

“I thought you’d prefer him over any of the other priests on the tier,” Keldra replies. “Should I have sent for someone else?”

“No, I’m only surprised to see him,” Tyri’el says, extending his hand to the other elf in greeting. “You were back in Tranquillien last I knew.”

“I grew tired of mending the rotting flesh of Forsaken,” Rhen replies, taking Tyri’el’s hand. “I’m happy to have been of help, though the Aldor priests did most of the work.”

He turns, glancing curiously at Violet for a moment before addressing Keldra.

“If you’ll forgive me, my lady, I’ll take my leave. I’m sure Voren’thal will have missed me by now.”

“He won’t have noticed your absence at all,” Keldra replies, hands moving to rest on her hips. “You simply don’t want to peel potatoes.”

“You’ve caught me, my lady,” Rhen says, bowing at the waist with a wry grin. He nods to Beleron, who returns the gesture curtly, eyes still on Violet. “Call me should you need anything.”

“Good evening, Rhen,” Keldra says, and he excuses himself from the kitchen, one last curious glance shot at Violet.

“Really, mother. I didn’t need to be seen by a priest. Violet tells me I was well cared for by the Aldor.”

“Nonsense,” Keldra replies, moving to pick up the ladle and wipe it off on her apron. “I wanted to be absolutely sure my baby would recover fully.”

“Mother…”

“Hush now, sundrop. What’s done is done.” She smiles at Violet. “Did you sleep well?”

“Ah, yes, I did. Thank you,” Violet says, nodding sheepishly. Keldra smiles, turning back to her son.

“Are you hungry? I bought some lovely talbuk steaks down at the market this morning. I know how much you enjoy it in stew.”

“Mother,” Tyri’el begins, fidgeting with his sleeve. “I…I need to speak with you. Alone.”

“As you like,” Keldra says, her brows knitting together in concern. She shoots a quick look at Violet before returning her attention to Tyri’el. “What about, sundrop?”

“It’s…I just need to speak with you.”

Keldra nods, wiping her hands on her apron and pulling it off. She hands it to Violet.

“Help Bel with the potatoes, would you, dear?”

“Yes, of course.” Violet takes the apron from her, slipping it over her head and tying it around her waist before sitting at the table opposite Beleron. He exchanges a knowing look with Tyri’el before going back to peeling the potato in his hands, pointedly ignoring Violet. Keldra ushers her son out of the room, and he shoots Violet a pleading look, one she responds to with a nod and a meager smile. They move through the house, passing through a sitting room before emerging out onto a balcony overlooking the whole of the Scryer’s tier. The pillar of light rising from the center of the city is clearly visible against the colors of the setting sun, and the whole city nearly glows in the rays of red and orange.

“I will admit, sundrop, I was surprised to hear you were in the Outlands once more,” Keldra says, sitting on a bench and patting the place beside her. “It seemed you were adverse to coming to visit for so long.”

“I’m sorry for that, mother,” Tyri’el says, sitting slowly beside her.

“Senna will be elated to see you. She’s so fond of you.”

“I know,” he replies, folding his hands in his lap. “I promised her I would visit for her birthday.”

“I heard as much,” Keldra says, smiling at her son. “It’s nearly all she’s spoken about since she received your letter. You are a few days early, however. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

“I didn’t come here for that. Not entirely, that is.”

“I know,” Keldra says, smile faltering, and Tyri’el looks up at her in question. “Violet told me you and your uncle came to speak to…to Kael.”

“What else did she tell you?” Tyri’el asks, bristling at her words.

“Nothing past that. She said it was something I needed to hear from you.”

Tyri’el breathes a momentary sigh of relief, the feeling quickly smothered out and replaced by dread that coils up into his chest from deep in his gut. He’d spent a whole week preparing himself for this conversation, and though he’d worked himself up to a point where he thought he had the courage to converse rationally, he can’t help but feel very small and unprepared now that he’s sitting face to face with his mother. He looks up at her, tears already budding in the corners of his eyes.

“Kael’s dead.” He says it as a simple fact, the words bitter on his tongue, and watches his mother closely for her reaction. At first, he wonders if she’d even heard him, but a hand comes up to cover her mouth and stifle a choked gasp as tears quickly cloud her eyes. Her reaction, so clearly visceral in nature, is all the proof he needs to confirm what he’s been hoping isn’t true. He speaks again, voice shaking despite his best efforts. “Before he died, he…he told me. He told me everything. About the winter my grandmother died.”

Keldra stops mid-sob, the sound dying in her throat, and she looks up at her son with wide, disbelieving eyes. She starts to form a response, but that, too, falls away, and she closes her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” As much as he wants to believe he’s strong enough to face her answer, the small child still hiding somewhere inside him cries out, a lifetime of questioning and self-loathing coming to the surface all at once. “Why, mother?”

“I thought I had more time,” Keldra whispers, opening her eyes to look up at her son.

“Were you ashamed of me? Are you still?”

“No, never!” Keldra replies, hand falling away from her mouth. “I have always been—”

“Then why?” He says, voice rising through a clenched jaw.

“To keep you safe.”

“Safe from what? From my…from the man I thought was my father?”

“Safe from those who would wish to use you for their own gains,” Keldra replies, voice breaking. “You were much safer never knowing—”

“Never knowing why he hated me? Why I was never…why he never loved me?” Hating himself for how feeble his voice sounds, Tyri’el scrubs at the tears staining his cheeks. “You didn’t keep me safe from him, mother.”

“Soven doesn’t know.”

“Then why—”

“He doesn’t know about Kael. He only knows…he only knows you’re not his son.”

“That isn’t any better,” Tyri’el replies, standing from the bench. “If he’d known of my blood, then he never would have treated me as he did. He wouldn’t have dared.”

“Sundrop—”

“No,” Tyri’el says, nearly shouting now. “You’ve had seven hundred years, mother. Seven hundred years of seeing the way he treated me, and seven hundred years of turning a blind eye to it.”

“I love you dearly, Tyri’el. You know that.” Keldra stands, grasping at him, but he steps out of her reach.

“Then why don’t I feel it?” He asks, knowing it’s a much younger version of himself pleading for the answer. “Why do I feel that you lied to me my entire life, keeping from me the one thing that I needed most from you?”

“I was ashamed of myself.” Keldra says it so quietly that Tyri’el almost doesn’t hear it over the roar of his pulse hammering in his ears. “I hated what I’d done.”

“And I was a constant reminder of it.”

“I was unfaithful to my husband. To the man I loved dearly and the father of my son. I gave in to my own weakness and made a mistake I could never take back.” She collapses down onto the bench, head in her hands. Tyri’el stands, watching her while fluxing back and forth between a lifetime of anger and the uncharacteristic candidness of his mother’s confession. Keldra looks up at him, and though he wants very much to keep his anger towards her, the utter heartbreak in her eyes starts to tear away at it. “I have never once regretted that you came of what I did. I love you more than anything in this world, Tyri’el, and I only ever wanted to protect you.”

“I needed to know, mother,” Tyri’el says, taking a step towards her. “Of all people, I had the greatest right to know who I really was.”

“I am sorry for it. Please, you must know that.”

“I…I don’t know that I can believe that. I want to, but…it is not something so easily forgiven.”

“I wouldn’t dare ask you for forgiveness. Not now, at least. You’ve every right to hate me for what I did.”

“I don’t hate you, mother,” Tyri’el says, sitting next to her and taking her hands in his.

“You should. I couldn’t…I meant to protect you but…” Keldra trails off, sobs silently shaking her body. “I am so sorry, Tyri’el. I failed you as a mother.”

“No,” Tyri’el says, watching her as the last of his anger subsides. He can still feel it deep inside him, slumbering for the time being, but warded off as he struggles to understand his mother’s reasoning.

“Had Kael known?” Keldra asks, pulling back to look at him. “Had he suspected?”

“I don’t know,” Tyri’el admits. “He accepted it fully when uncle told him.”

“Why did your uncle tell him? I…he swore to me—”

“He knew Kael’s time was up. Both the Horde and the Alliance were calling for his death, so he…he brought me to Tempest Keep so we both could make our peace. He wanted Kael to die knowing who I really was.”

“I should have been there. I should have been the one to tell the both of you, together.”

“It doesn’t matter now. They’re all dead.”

“Everyone?”

Tyri’el nods.

“Capernian?”

He nods again, hanging his head, and it’s Keldra’s turn to hold him close.

“Sun of my life, you have faced so much. I would take it all away if I could.” She kisses his temple. “I love you like no other.”

“I’m lost, mother,” Tyri’el says, weeping quietly on her shoulder. “I thought I knew who I was, but now I…I am no king.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” Keldra replies, stroking his hair. “But I have always known you were born for great things.”

“I don’t feel it.”

“Mm, no one ever does, sundrop. No one ever thinks themselves ready to shoulder such burdens. But you are a Sunfury, and a Sunstrider. You come from a long line of great leaders.”

“I am no king,” Tyri’el repeats. “I am barely even myself anymore.”

“You will learn,” Keldra murmurs, and for a moment, Tyri’el almost believes her. “There are many who will stand beside you.”

They sit in silence, Keldra rubbing slow, comforting circles across her son’s back, and Tyri’el tries to keep himself centered in this moment, in this fleeting sense of peace, but his nerves slowly tear at him.

“Violet will stand beside you,” Keldra says, and Tyri’el lifts his head from her shoulder to see that she’s watching him with a knowing smile despite her tears. “I can see that she cares for you very much.”

“And I her,” he admits, wiping at his eyes. “But she’s…”

“Human,” Keldra says, and Tyri’el nods. She smiles sadly. “We do not choose who we love, my shining sun. We can only choose how deeply we give in to the feeling.”

“Kael loved you,” he says, almost able to see the pain his words stir in her. “I don’t think he ever stopped.”

“I think I never stopped, as well,” Keldra says, eyes far away for a moment. “It’s a curious feeling, to know you can hold love in your heart for two people.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You still love Capernian, after all she was to you.”

“Yes.”

“And you love Violet.”

“I…yes.” A sort of relief comes with his admittance, as if the words themselves lift a physical weight from his heart. Keldra smiles, tucking a lock of hair away from his face.

“Promise me something, sundrop.”

Tyri’el meets her eyes, a question held there.

“Promise me you will not wait a lifetime to tell her. Someday it may be too late, and you will have to live with yourself forever after.”

Tyri’el pauses, letting her words sink in, and he nods slowly. Her smile continues, and she leans forward to kiss his forehead.

“We can speak more on this later, if you would like. For now, though, I think a meal would do you worlds of good.” Keldra stands, holding her hand out to him, and he takes it. They stand on the balcony, watching the last rays of light fade from the horizon, and the stars start to come out in the new darkness.

“You are my greatest accomplishment, Tyri’el.”

“I can only hope that I live up to such high praise.”

They turn away and move towards the door just as a wave of forced calm overcomes them and the city around them falls silent. A clear, melodic voice fills their minds, ringing in their chests like the pealing of great bells.

_Kael’thas Sunstrider is dead. The time to strike at the remaining blood elves of Tempest Keep is now!_

Keldra staggers, and they turn back to see the spire of light in the center of the city pulsing as the naaru’s voice fills the city. The dark falling on the city rips open, and a pillar of flame leaps from the temple and comes alive in the sky. It moves over the city as if it's sentient, shifting and warping to form a great phoenix, firey wings spread wide as it hovers over the temple. Tyri’el rushes to the edge of the balcony, watching the phoenix raise its wings to form the crest of the Sunfury Army, the very same one that adorns the signet ring on his right hand.

_“Your monkeys failed to finish the job, naaru. Beaten…but alive. The same mistake was not made when we took command of your vessel.”_

Like a waking nightmare, Kael’thas’s voice rings out across the city, twisted into something darker but still unmistakably belonging to him. Keldra grips at Tyri’el’s arm, her eyes fixed on the phoenix. A moment later, Beleron emerges from the house, coming to stand beside his sister, and Violet appears at Tyri’el’s side. She places her hand on his arm to comfort him, but he doesn’t notice as he watches the phoenix grow in size, flames licking out from its spread wings.

_“All for what? Trinkets?”_

“What is this?” Beleron asks, mostly to himself, the horror clear in his eyes.

_“You are too late. The preparations have already begun. Soon the master will make his return. And there is nothing you or that fool, Illidan, can do to stop me! You have both served me in your own right - unwittingly.”_

The ethereal phoenix rears, letting loose a sickening cry unlike anything a mortal creature could produce. It’s drowned out by laughter, a sound laced with insanity, and Violet lets out a small cry, covering her ears with her hands at the sheer magnitude of the voice. Tyri’el puts his arm around her, eyes never leaving the phoenix as it rises up into the air, coiling around the pillar of light like a long tendril of pure flame.

_“Lay down your arms and succumb to the might of Kil’Jaeden!”_

With one last screech, the phoenix dives at the temple, exploding into a shockwave of flame that blankets the entire structure before surging out across the city and dissipating into nothing more than wisps of smoke that melt away into the night. Its heat reaches their skin from where they stand, leaving them in stunned silence, the last peal of demonic laughter ringing in their ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhen is my (renamed) priest, and the dialogue at the end is taken directly from the in-game quest where you give A'dal the Verdant Sphere you took from Kael'thas when you "killed" him in Tempest Keep.


	33. Reunions

Small as it is, the box in Tyri’el’s hands seems to weigh a hundred pounds. The glowing ember housed within seems dimmer now than it had when his father had hastily gifted it to him, though it still gives off little swirls of luminous smoke. He stares down at it for a moment before tilting the box to gently drop it into his hand, and he finds that it’s warm to the touch and pulsing gently like a tiny heart.

“Are you going to stay in there forever?” He asks quietly, turning the ember back and forth to watch the candle light dance off its glowing surface. “You may as well. I’m sure you’d find me a poor master.”

Tyri’el waits in silence for a moment as if he expects the sleeping god within to speak to him, but the ember only flickers and remains unchanged. He returns it to the gilded box, staring down at it through red-rimmed eyes. A soft knock comes on the door and he snaps shut the lid, calling for them to enter. The door opens and Violet peeks around it.

“Mind if I come in?”

“Not at all,” he replies, and she enters the room, shutting the door behind her before coming to sit next to him on the bed. They sit in silence for a moment, Tyri’el keeping his eyes trained away from her.

“Your mother set me up in one of the rooms down the hall,” Violet says finally, pulling on the leather cord keeping her hair tied back. Tyri’el nods but says nothing, and Violet frowns. “If you need me during the night, I’m only a few steps away.”

“I…I will keep that in mind.”

“Will you be all right?”

“Yes,” Tyri’el replies, glancing at her sideways to find that she’s watching him closely. He sighs. “Eventually.”

“I will listen,” Violet says, placing her hand on his forearm. Tyri’el looks up, considering her for a moment, before shaking his head. “Please, Tyri’el. I want to help.”

“This can’t be helped. I can’t be helped.”

“We both know that isn’t true.” Violet purses her lips when Tyri’el doesn’t respond. She exhales sharply through her nose, pausing for a moment before speaking again. “What’s in there?”

She nods at the box, and Tyri’el hesitates for a split second before opening the lid and handing it to her.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, marveling at the way the light catches on the strange object like a pearl painted in oranges and reds. “Some kind of gem?”

“It’s a phoenix,” Tyri’el replies. “Rather it was. Or will be.”

“A pet of your…of his?” Violet catches herself, seeing the way the mere mention of Tyri’el’s father causes a flare of emotion behind his eyes.

“More of a guardian,” Tyri’el says, watching her as she turns the box to see the light flash across the ember. “His name is Al’ar. A phoenix god summoned from the elemental plane of fire by Dath’Remar Sunstrider. He led the first of the quel’dorei across the great sea from Kalimdor over seven thousand years ago, and has been bound to the patriarch of the Sunstrider dynasty ever since.”

Tyri’el lets out a shuddering breath, and Violet closes the box, setting it between them on the bed so she can take his hands in hers.

“I suppose that title falls to me now,” he says quietly. “I fear he’ll never be reborn. Not with me as a master.”

“I don’t believe that,” Violet says, and Tyri’el shakes his head, pulling his hands from her grasp as he stands and moves to the window.

“You don’t understand,” he says, shying away from her when she comes to stand beside him.

“No,” Violet begins, looking up at him, “but I want very much to.”

“I…I am not a king. I can’t…” Tyri’el trails off, unable to fully articulate just how small and incompetent he feels when compared to anyone else in his bloodline. “My brow is no place for the crown of the Sun King.”

“I think you would make for a great king,” Violet says quietly, unsure why the thought stirs up both panic and pain in her chest.

“My people need a leader. Someone like Lor’themar, who…” Tyri’el’s shoulders sag, the weight of such lofty responsibilities nearly crushing him where he stands. He shakes his head. “They don’t need me. No one needs me.”

“That is spectacularly not true,” Violet says, looking up at him. “Plenty of people can’t bear the thought of—”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” she replies, hands balling into fists at her sides. “And I’m telling you that you’re worth a hell of a lot more than you seem to think you are. To a lot of people. Myself included.”

“You’re wrong,” Tyri’el says, turning away from her, but she grabs his shoulder and forces him to face her. He glances at her, afraid of what he might see in her eyes, and even more afraid of what she might see in his.

“No, I’m not,” Violet says, voice surprisingly calm given the nerves fluttering in her gut at the way he’s looking at her. She’s already said far too much, and she doesn’t trust herself to think and act rationally when he’s this close to her, watching her with such a broken expression that she thinks she might do anything to make certain he never has to wear it again. Dropping her hand to her side, she takes a deep breath to steady herself before meeting his eyes. “Please don’t think so little of yourself.”

“I thought much less of myself before I met you,” Tyri’el admits, wanting very much to reach out to her, to show her exactly what she means to him, but he stays nearly frozen in place, unable to move past the fear that she doesn’t share his desire. Violet blinks, caught off guard by his words, and her cheeks go crimson. She smiles after a moment, holding in a nervous laugh.

“You should try for some sleep,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek. “You’re going delirious.”

Tyri’el laughs, posture relaxing, though he’s still acutely away of how close she is to him.

“We both are, I think,” he says, a genuine smile on his lips.

“I’m just down the hall,” Violet says, and he nods. She turns to leave, pausing mid-step to look back at him. Before she realizes it, she’s up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips against his cheek for just a moment. “Goodnight, Tyri’el.”

“Goodnight,” Tyri’el replies, taking much longer than he should have to realize that she’s already gone by the time the word leaves his lips. His fingers find his cheek where she’d kissed him, and he smiles despite himself, allowing a rare rush of giddiness to overcome him. Soon, however, the day’s events begin to sap at his strength, and he changes into his sleep clothes before collapsing into bed. His leg still aches dully, but otherwise, he doesn’t seem much worse for wear after his encounter with the naga. He puzzles when he can’t recall how exactly he and Violet had gotten to Shattrath, and the fact that Violet hadn’t mentioned anything about Hala to him since he’s been awake. His mind is quickly going blank, however, and he resolves to ask her in the morning.

Though he falls asleep quickly, sleep proves ultimately futile. His father’s voice haunts his dreams, sometimes berating him for utter incompetence, other times screaming out in what little of the demonic language he’d managed to learn in his time at the Black Temple. He tosses feverishly through the night, always on the fringes of consciousness, until the first fingers of dawn creep over the hills and stream in through the window. Waking with a start, he finds himself drenched in sweat with his hair a tangled mess, and rises from the bed to take a bath as a meager distraction from the images still clouding his mind. Emerging from his room a short time later, dressed in fresh clothes, he hears the sound of his mother’s voice from a room down the hall, and he follows it.

“There, isn’t that lovely?” Keldra asks, tying off the bottom of the braid with a satin ribbon. She smooths at Violet’s hair, admiring her work in the mirror they’re both standing before. “I always wanted a daughter of my own, but Belore saw fit to bless me with two sons. At a certain age, boys stop letting their mothers fuss with their hair, you see. For Ralen it was six or seven, but my sweet Tyri’el was well into his teens before—”

“Mother,” Tyri’el says, startling both of the women.

“Oh, good morning, sundrop,” Keldra exclaims, moving across the room to peck her son on the cheek. Violet fidgets with the end of her braid, giving him a quick smile before she finds she can’t seem to keep eye contact with him for more than a split second. She’d laid awake for some time in the night, wondering if she’d made a mistake by being so forward with her kiss. The slight friction between the two doesn’t escape Keldra’s attention, and she smiles knowingly. “I must get ready for my day, but there are sweet rolls keeping warm in the oven downstairs. I made them just for you, my sun.”

Tyri’el thanks her, and she nods, face falling as she speaks again.

“Your…Soven and Senna will be returning sometime this morning.”

Tyri’el nods stiffly but says nothing. Keldra takes his cheek and they exchange a few short words in Thalassian before she leaves the room.

“I apologize for her…enthusiasm,” he says once his mother is out of earshot.

“It’s all right,” Violet says, still fussing with her hair. “It was actually kind of nice. My mother used to sit me down like that.”

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Tyri’el asks after a moment of floundering for something intelligent to say. Violet smiles.

“I’d love to.”

After stopping in the kitchen for a quick bite to eat, the pair leave the house, stopping short at the scene just outside the door. A group of children are gathered in the courtyard outside the house, all crowded around Hala, who is lying on her side enjoying many pairs of curious hands rubbing at her belly and scratching behind her ears. The young elves all seem completely smitten with her, some of them cooing in soft voices and others nearly laying on top of her as they run their hands through her pale pelt. Violet lets out a short laugh of surprise at the sight, and the worg’s ears perk up and she lifts her head. Almost immediately, she jumps up, sending the children scattering with small shrieks, and bounds across the courtyard to nearly knock over her mistress.

“Made some new friends, have you?” Violet asks, and Hala sniffs eagerly at her with her tail wagging. The children watch in awe, most of them looking like they’re too scared to run, but still curious enough to risk being reprimanded.

“This was tied around his neck, sir,” a young boy says, approaching Tyri’el with a small envelope in his hand. Tyri’el thanks him with a warm smile, and the group disperses, longing looks cast over their shoulders as they file out of the courtyard. Tyri’el opens the small envelope, brows knitting together in confusion.

“What’s it say?” Violet asks, pulling back from giving Hala a tight hug around her neck.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he replies, squinting at the parchment. “I’ve never seen this language before.”

Violet leans over and plucks the note from him.

“I should hope not,” she says, scanning it quickly before taking the envelope and turning it upside down. A single match falls out, and she strikes it against the stoop and sends both the note and its envelope up in flames without hesitation. She lets the match burn itself out before sticking the charred remains into the damp soil of a nearby floating flowerpot. She turns back to see Tyri’el watching her with eyebrows raised, and she shrugs. “Rogue business.”

“I see,” Tyri’el replies, though it’s very plain in his face that he’s still thoroughly confused.

“You will,” Violet says, smirking wryly. “Where exactly is the World’s End Tavern?”

“It’s in the Lower City,” Tyri’el says, eyebrows still raised. “I would suggest avoiding the whole level, though. It’s full of thieves and pickpoc— oh.”

Violet grins, and Tyri’el sighs.

“Very well,” he says, trying not to grin himself. “Follow me.”

They move through the early morning activities of the Scryer’s tier, Hala plodding along after them, and they’re soon down the lift and moving through the central ring of the city, which is more sparsely populated this time of day. Once they descend a long ramp into the Lower City, Tyri’el leads them northeast towards a large building made from the same pale stone as most of the other dwellings in the city. People of all races mill about outside, some of them familiar to Violet, and others strikingly foreign. Orcs with brown skin rather than fel green, tiny purplish creatures with glowing eyes and mushrooms growing from their skin, and bird-like creatures that shuffle upright in a surprisingly humanoid manner. She does her best not to stare, and they’re soon at the entrance to the building.

“Here we are,” Tyri’el says uneasily, and Violet motions for Hala to sit before they enter the tavern. Despite the early time of day, the place seems busy, full of patrons all enjoying their drinks and the company of friends. Violet quickly scans the main room, settling on a form in the far corner, and approaches the table.

“Aye, so I did find the right house fer ya, eh lass?”

“Flawless tracking, as usual,” Violet replies, grinning and taking a seat next to the dwarf.

“And yer boy toy survived his stabbin’, I see,” Redpike says, looking Tyri’el up and down as she sips at her mug of stout. Violet begins to protest, but the dwarf only laughs and waves her off. “Dinnae ye go denyin’ it, lass. Nothin’ wrong with likin’ a fine hard body like the elves be havin’. Sit, lad. I dinnae bite unless I’ve had a few more drinks.”

Tyri’el casts a wary look at Violet, who nods, and he sits next to her with his back rigid against the chair.

“This is Redpike,” Violet says to him, gesturing a the dwarf. “A very good friend of mine from…”

“Work,” Tyri’el supplies, and Violet nods.

“Redpike, this is—”

“I know who he is, lass. Yer daft for thinkin’ I dinnae do me homework on who yer spending yer time with in that damned hellhole.” She takes a drink, glancing up at the door to see Hala peering inside, still sitting where her mistress had left her. “I see yer pup behaved herself while she was waitin’ fer ya. Right smart beast, she is.”

“Thank you for bringing her here,” Violet says, nodding. “And for letting me borrow Tawny.”

“Dinnae say I never did nothin’ fer ya, lass. Not just any silly human I’d be riskin’ me hide fer.” Redpike reaches into her vest, pulling out a small key. “All yer things be in this room. Saddle, bags, everythin’. Even that pretty magic stick o’ yours, lad. Went against me better nature not to sell it for a pretty copper, ye know.”

Violet hands the key to Tyri’el, nodding to the stairs across the room that lead to the upper floor.

“Find the room and start packing our things, yeah? I’ll be up in a minute.”

Tyri’el hesitates, looking between the key in his hand and Violet, who nods again.

“Go. I just have a few loose ends to tie up here.”

Tyri’el obeys, albeit hesitantly, and Violet follows him with her eyes until he’s up the stairs and out of sight.

“The Lord is eager to have ye back, lass,” Redpike says, leaning in and lowering her voice. “We can bolt anytime. I have me hearthstone set right back to the manor. All ye have to do is say the word and we’re off this damned rock and back on real ground.”

“I…I can’t go back. Not yet,” Violet says, wincing at the dwarf’s grunt of disapproval.

“Ye mean to tell me yer gonna go back to the lair o’ the Banshee Queen full-willin’?”

“I have to,” Violet replies, eyes cast downward.

“What for? That tight little arse up there? Lass, listen to me,” Redpike says, setting down her drink to put her hand on Violet’s arm. “Ye know as well as I that a fling or two is good fer ya once in a while, but anythin’ past that is a spot o’ bad luck waitin’ to happen.”

“I know, but—”

“Ye love him, I get that. But yer a damned good rogue, and that means a long list o’ folk just foamin’ at the mouth to get their hands on someone they can use fer no good against ye.”

“I can’t leave. Not now. He…he needs me.”

“Beard o’ me father, lass. Ye know ye can’t. Ye’ve seen what happens—”

“I won’t let anyone hurt him,” Violet says, standing from the table with her fists balled at her sides. “Tell the Lord that I’ll be home as soon as I can manage.”

“Lass—”

“Thank you, Redpike.” Violet leaves without looking back, moving across the tavern and sprinting up the stairs. She finds the room with the number on the key, pausing outside to take a deep breath before opening the door.

Tyri’el is inside, rummaging through the bags piled on the bed there, his staff already sheathed across his back.

“Did you settle your secret rogue business?” He asks when he sees her enter. His smile falters when he sees her stern demeanor. “Is everything all right?”

“Just fine,” Violet says, hoisting Hala’s saddle into her arms. Tyri’el takes the rest of the loose bags, checking the room over before following Violet out and down to the first floor. Redpike is gone when they pass the table, and Tyri’el doesn’t miss the small grunt from Violet when she notices her friend’s absence. He returns the room key to the barkeep and leaves the tavern, finding Violet outside, working to fasten the saddle across Hala’s back. The worg wags her tail at Tyri’el, sitting patiently as her mistress works. “There’s a stable on your tier, yeah?”

“Not far from my mother’s house,” Tyri’el says, brows knit at her attitude. “Are you certain you’re—”

“I said I’m fine,” Violet snaps, working on one of the buckles to secure part of the saddle. Tyri’el leaves it at that, and as soon as all their bags are secured on Hala’s back, they leave the Lower City and move back towards the Scryer’s tier. Violet walks briskly next to Hala, and though it’s easy for him to keep up, Tyri’el can’t help but worry over her sullen mood. She says nothing as they walk, one hand on Hala’s neck and her eyes fixed on the ground before her. They’re only a few hundred feet from the lift to the Scryer’s tier when a high-pitched shriek cuts through the relative silence of the inner ring. A moment later, something collides head-on into Tyri’el, nearly knocking him off his feet.

“Uncle T! You’re here! You said you’d be here for my birthday and you came!” A young elf attaches herself to Tyri’el, arms gripping his waist like a vice. She’s nearly vibrating with excitement, bouncing up and down on her tiptoes as she lifts her copper-haired head to look up at him with a wide grin. “Grandfather said you were lying, but I told him! I told him you would come! And you did!”

“Senna, ah, hello,” Tyri’el says, smiling at her enthusiasm and putting his arms around her in a proper hug. “Belore’s wrath, you’re getting tall.”

“Grandmother says I’ll be taller than her, can you believe it? I’m the tallest girl in my class, too! Maybe I’ll get taller than you!”

“Maybe,” Tyri’el says, glancing over at Violet, who’s been watching the whole exchange with an expression somewhere between amusement and trepidation. Hala seems very interested in the newcomer, shuffling over to sniff at the young elf’s hair. Senna feels the worg’s breath and turns, eyes widening.

“Oh, hello! Aren’t you just the most beautiful thing?” She says, reaching up to pet Hala. She stops short when she sees Violet, and her fascination never falters. “Who are you? Is this worg yours? What’s her name? What’s your name?”

“This is Violet,” Tyri’el says. “She’s a friend of mine.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Violet,” Senna replies, holding out her hand. “Humans shake hands, right? Seems kind of strange to me, don’t you think?”

Glancing sideways at Tyri’el for a moment, Violet reaches out and takes Senna’s hand, and the young elf shakes it excitedly.

“You’re staying until my birthday, right Uncle T?” Senna drops Violet’s hand almost as quickly as she’d taken it, turning back to her uncle.

“Of course I am,” he says, and though his niece doesn’t notice it, Violet can clearly see that he’s fighting to keep his composure. He’d said that Senna was very much like her father, and Violet reaches out to put her hand on his shoulder in a small gesture meant to comfort him. He looks at her, nodding shortly in appreciation. Senna continues to talk at a mile a minute, asking questions without waiting for a reply, and goes back to petting Hala, who seems to very much enjoy the attention.

“Senna,” a new voice says, coming from behind them. The group turn, and Senna falls quiet, bowing her head. A blood elf approaches them, his hair the same shade of fiery red as Senna’s, his eyes hard as he looks from her to Tyri’el. He spends only a brief moment with his attention on Tyri’el before returning it to the younger elf. “You shouldn’t run off like that. Remember what happened last time?”

“Sorry, grandfather,” Senna says, scuffing at the ground with the toe of her boot.

“Come, I’m sure your grandmother will be very happy to see you,” he says, and Senna nods, a bit of her smile returning. His gaze finds Tyri’el again, his eyes hardening. “Tyri’el.”

“Sir,” Tyri’el replies, shoulders squaring as a moment of tension passes between them. The older elf’s eyes flick to Violet and he almost sneers before moving past them and holding his hand out to Senna. She takes it, moving with him and casting a longing look over her shoulder at her uncle. A lynx, its fur blood red and shining in the morning sun, slinks past Tyri’el and follows the other elves, sparing a moment to hiss at Hala as it passes her.

“That’s him?” Violet asks, coming to stand next to Tyri’el as he watches them step onto the lift. His jaw is set and his throat is strained as he nods.

“That’s him,” he says, and Violet reaches out to take his hand. “Soven. The man I thought was my father.”


	34. Anywhere

“Can we sit for a moment?” Tyri’el asks, stopping in front of one of the many benches that line one of the main avenues of the Scryer’s tier. They’ve been walking in silence for the last few minutes, hands clasped with each other’s as they go. Violet nods, motioning for Hala to sit, and the two of them take a seat. Tyri’el rubs absently at his leg, resting his staff against the other. Violet notices, nodding at it.

“Does it hurt?”

“A bit,” Tyri’el says with a small nod, dropping her hand to run both of his down his face with a long, terse breath released through his nose. “But I…I can’t go in there. Not yet.”

Violet looks across the square at his mother’s house, seeing the gate still left open where Senna was too excited to remember to close it. Almost as quickly as he’d let go of it, Tyri’el takes her hand again, and she returns her attention to him.

“Does he know?” She asks him quietly, and he shakes his head, closing his eyes and tugging her closer to him. It’s a desperate hug, like she’s the only thing keeping him from slipping beneath the surface of a churning sea, and she clings to him in turn, refusing to let him sink.

“He knows I’m not his son,” Tyri’el says after a short pause, his cheek pressed to the crown of her head. “But not whose child I really am.”

“Your whole life?” Violet asks, and she feels him nod.

“Most of it. I can remember being very young and he…he didn’t hate me then. I don’t remember how old I was when…when he changed.”

“Did he…he didn’t hurt you, did he?” Violet sits up, a surge of rage overcoming her all at once, and her hands curl into fists. An image invades her mind, of her hands closing around Soven’s neck, and she has to physically shake her head to clear the thought. Tyri’el sees the change in her, gently touching her cheek so she’ll look at him.

“He never struck me, if that’s what you mean,” he replies, seeing the fire leave her eyes and her posture relax. “He’s never really touched me at all. Never a hug, or a…”

Tyri’el clenches his jaw, looking down and away. All Violet can think to do is wrap her arms around his neck and press her forehead to his chest, content to give him what little comfort she can manage. He sighs and relaxes into her, still in awe of the immediate calm her presence brings. People are undoubtedly staring as they pass the two of them huddled together on the bench, but Tyri’el can’t find it in him to care what they might think.

“We can leave,” Violet says quietly, angling her head to look up at him. “We can just return to Azeroth and you’ll never have to see him again.”

It’s a tempting offer. There are plenty of places he can think for them to hide themselves away, places where no one, family or otherwise, would ever be able to find them. It would be just the two of them, for the rest of their lives. Some distant pessimistic part of his brain blatantly reminds him of the meager lifespan of humans, and his chest clenches at the realization of just how little time he might truly have left with her.

“No,” he says, really more to his own dark thoughts than to her, and she sighs against his chest.

“I thought not,” she says. “But it was worth a shot.”

“I have to face him, sooner or later,” Tyri’el muses, thinking later sounds much better. “If not for myself, then for my mother. And for Kael.”

Violet hums in agreement, listening to his heartbeat against her ear.

“I’m beginning to think that if given the choice, I would rather not be anyone’s son,” Tyri’el says, words fading off into a long sigh, and Violet lets out a soft snort. He looks down at her, eyebrow raised. “Something funny?”

“Not in so many words,” Violet says, twirling a lock of his long hair around her finger as a distraction. “It’s just…I spent my whole life wishing for my father, and now here you are with two, and you want nothing to do with either.”

Tyri’el shifts his weight, her words forcing up a pang of shame.

“Your mother never spoke of him to you?”

“Rarely, and never unless I refused to go without an answer,” Violet replies, her hand letting his hair fall back against his chest so she can grip at her locket. “I know now that she must have been ashamed of him. Or of herself.”

Tyri’el nods, his hold on her tightening as his mother’s confession the night before comes back to him.

“She never spoke ill of him, though. Told me he was a good man, a paladin of the Light. She wept when I told her I wanted to join the Silver Hand.” Violet sighs, her breath warm on Tyri’el’s neck. “Had it in my head I could find him someday. Maybe I did. I suppose I’ll never know.”

“It’s better that way,” Tyri’el says, unable to keep a bitter undertone from creeping into his voice. “She did you a service.”

“Perhaps,” Violet replies, biting her lip to keep her tears at bay. Beside them, Hala’s ears perk up and she lifts her head from the cobblestones, looking towards the house. Senna bounds across the courtyard and out into the street, approaching them with wide eyes that spread into a grin.

“Uncle Bel wants you, Uncle T,” she says, looking between them with far too much understanding for someone barely ten years old. “Unless you’re busy. I can tell him you’re busy. I’ll go tell him you’re busy.”

“Senna, wait,” Tyri’el says, narrowly missing her arm as he lurches forward and reaches to stop her as she turns towards the house. She turns back, grinning. Violet notices that her eyes are more of a pale teal color than the fel green of most blood elves, much closer to the blue of the few high elves she’d met in Dalaran. Tyri’el releases his hold on Violet and stands slowly, offering her his hand. She takes it, handing him his staff, and he thanks her softly before looking back to his niece. “Did he say what he wanted to speak to me about?”

“Nope!” Senna says, leaning in and whispering. “But he looked really grumpy. Grumpier than normal.”

“Belore’s wrath,” Tyri’el says on an exhale. He shoots Violet a worried look and moves towards the house, nerves roiling inside him. Senna waits until he’s a few feet away before turning her attention to Violet.

“Are you Uncle T’s girlfriend? Isn’t that what humans call it? Girlfriend?”

“I, ah, no,” Violet stammers, cheeks going red. “We’re just—”

“That’s too bad. You seem nice. I like your worg.” The young elf bends to scratch behind Hala’s ears, and the worg grunts in satisfaction, rolling onto her side as far as her saddle will allow. Senna kneels and starts to rub at her belly. “I like you, yes I do.”

Tyri’el enters the house, taking a moment to adjust his eyes to the darkness inside, and moves through the foyer into the sitting room. Soven is nowhere to be seen, and his mother and uncle are on the far side of the room, their voices low and words sharp.

“I will not allow it, Bel. He is not—”

“There is no other choice. He’s the—”

“No. Absolutely not. Lor’themar can take his sword and sho—”

“Uncle?” Tyri’el says, and the two older elves startle and look up at him. Keldra’s cheeks are wet despite the steel in her expression, and she glares at Beleron for a split second before approaching her son.

“Do not listen to a word he says, sundrop. Please.”

“Keldra…”

“No,” she snaps, spinning around to point a long-nailed finger at him. “He is my son and I still have a say in what he—”

“Mother or no, he is—”

“What’s going on?” Tyri’el asks, stepping between the two of them with his hands out in an attempt to placate them.

“Ask your uncle. He seems to think he has all the answers.” Keldra storms out of the room, a wave of heat radiating off of her as she goes, and her footsteps echo up the staircase until a door slams and the upper floor falls silent. Beleron lets out a long breath through his nose.

“You spoke to Archmage Khadgar, then?” Tyri’el asks, looking to his uncle. Beleron nods.

“Last night. He said that even he has no notion of how Kael appeared before A’dal. Some suggested that he enchanted his verdant spheres to deliver the message, but without the other two, we have no way to prove such a theory.” Beleron begins to pace. “Others seem to think he survived the attack on Tempest Keep, or that some of his agents entered the city to relay a message.”

“What do you believe happened?” Tyri’el asks, and Beleron pauses mid-step to look at his nephew. There are dark circles under his eyes, making him look gaunt and frail as a shadow passes over his face.

“I…I don’t know. I returned to Tempest Keep only hours after we’d left and he…his body was gone. I sensed lingering traces of a portal but I was…unable to track its destination.”

“And the others?”

“The others were still there. I…I built a pyre for them. It seemed only right.”

Tyri’el swallows hard, biting back tears. Beleron approaches him, reaching into his robes to place something small and cool into Tyri’el’s palm.

“Capernian was wearing this when she…I thought you might wish to have it.”

Looking down at his hand, Tyri’el closes his eyes at the sight of the familiar object there. It’s a small golden band, the metal shaped into two fire lilies supporting a shimmering sapphire. He tries not to remember the day he gave it to her as a promise of forever, and his mind rewards him instead with the image of her tear-stained face the day she threw it at his feet as he left her at the gates of Tempest Keep. His uncle’s hand comes on his shoulder and he opens his eyes, blinking away the tears clouding them.

“What happens now?” He asks, and Beleron’s hand drops to his side.

“I traveled to Silvermoon this morning, to speak with Lor’themar.”

“And?”

“He wishes to speak with you, and soon.”

“What about? You know more than I about what happened.”

“He wishes to know when you plan to take the throne.”

“When I plan to take the throne.” Tyri’el repeats the words, turning them over in his head until they no longer make sense.

Him. On the throne. King of Quel’Thalas. Responsible for the lives of what few of his kin remain. King. Alone. On the throne. King.

“No,” he says, barely choking out the word. “I won’t.”

“Listen to me,” Beleron says, grabbing his arm to halt his blind retreat. Tyri’el can’t look him in the eye, instead focusing all his energy on not letting his legs buckle beneath him. “I know you think yourself unready to bear the crown. I know it seems a monumental task in this moment. But you must, Tyri’el. For the good of your people, and for the future of your kingdom, you must.”

“I can’t.”

“You _must_.”

“Tell him no. Tell him—”

“Please,” Beleron says, the ragged word cutting through the haze of panic clouding Tyri’el’s mind. He looks over at his uncle, heart dropping at just how lost the older elf looks. “At the very least, speak to him.”

“I can’t. I won’t go back there. I swore to—”

“I will be beside you at every turn, Tyri’el. You will not face this alone.” Beleron looks his nephew dead in the eye, his conviction bordering on desperation. “Please.”

“I don’t have a choice in the matter, do I?”

“You know what you must do.”

“I…” Tyri’el begins, feeling the weight of the ring still clutched in his hand. For a moment, he wants to throw it as far away from himself as he can manage, to rid himself of such a glaring reminder of his numerous failures, and he can almost hear Capernian’s voice in his head as he looks down at it. She wanted to know who he’d given his heart to, who he’d chosen over her. The woman he’d saved while she, his first love, was inching closer to her death. He closes his hand around the ring, the subtle points of metal digging into his palm. “I will go. I will speak to Lor’themar.”

Beleron relaxes, clapping him on the shoulder and nodding to himself.

“With one condition.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Violet comes with me.”

The change in the room is instantaneous, the temperature spiking as his uncle’s grip tightens on his shoulder.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s not up for debate.”

“I will not allow her to set one foot in Quel’Thalas.”

Tyri’el shrugs out of his uncle’s grasp, taking a step back and meeting his eyes.

“She goes, or I don’t.” He shakes his head to cut off the reply. “That is my condition. Take it or leave it.”

“Do you realize what that would mean? The last human to enter our home destroyed it, and nearly drove our people to extinction. And you want to give _her_ quarter in what little _he_ left behind?”

“Yes.” Tyri’el squares his shoulders, more sure of himself than he can recall feeling in a very long time. “Violet is not Arthas, and I’m growing tired of you seeing her as such.”

“Lor’themar will never allow it,” Beleron says, little wisps of smoke curling out from behind his clenched teeth. “I will make certain of it.”

“If you want so badly for me to be king, uncle,” Tyri’el says, surprising even himself with the command in his voice, “then you will learn to obey me when I give an order.”

He leaves Beleron in the sitting room, moving through the house and out into the courtyard beyond. Violet and Senna have moved inside the walls from the street, both of them sitting on the ground with Hala sprawled out between them. They’re conversing with each other, both of them smiling, and Tyri’el stops to watch them interact. Violet has a beautiful smile, he muses, listening to the sweet pitch of her laughter, and he can’t help but smile.

She notices him after a moment, inclining her head to one side to silently ask him if he’s all right. He smiles, meaning to reassure her, but something in his eyes has her excusing herself rising to her feet to meet him.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, keeping her voice low. She reaches up to wipe at the tears still drying on his cheeks, frown deepening with her furrowing brow. He wants to tell her nothing is wrong, that his heart isn’t strangulated with grief and he’s not clutching the ring of his dead betrothed, but he can’t seem to say anything at all. Violet take his hand - thankfully, not the one hiding the ring - and squeezes it gently. Behind them, the front door swings open and Beleron emerges from the house. He almost growls when he sees the two of them so close together, instead barking out a few short words in their direction.

“We leave presently.” With that, he slams shut the door, the hinges rattling from the force.

“Where are you going?” Violet asks, seeing the emotions swirl in Tyri’el’s eyes.

“Silvermoon,” he says, taking a steadying breath. “We’re going to Silvermoon.”

“We…as in you and your uncle.”

“No,” Tyri’el replies, hoping he doesn’t look as desperate as he feels.

“You want me…to go to Quel’Thalas?” Violet asks. “Is that…is that even legal?”

“It is if I say it is,” he says, and Violet nods.

“Can I ask why?”

“Uncle seems to think that Lor’themar will surrender leadership of the kingdom to me.”

“You…you’re going to become king?” Her balance falters for only a split second and her stomach turns in nervous waves. “I thought you said that isn’t what you wanted.”

“It isn’t,” Tyri’el says, shaking his head. “But I still need to speak to Lor’themar on it.”

“I have no business…not there. I’m not…a human has no place in Silvermoon. People will…that’s no way to start your reign.” Her mouth moves, but the thoughts roiling around inside her head don’t connect into coherent sentences, so she stops herself and looks up at him, hating the way the fear in his eyes makes her feel. “I don’t belong in your world, Tyri’el.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, resting his forehead against hers. “Anywhere I must go, I want you there with me.”

Violet swallows hard, closing her eyes and breathing in the soothing scent that is so painfully _him_.

“I’ll follow you anywhere.”


	35. Kingdom of Eternal Summer

Silvermoon City is, in a single word, magnificent. As Violet emerges from the portal, her hands firmly clasped around Tyri’el’s bicep, her mouth falls open in awe at the city around her. White walls surround them, kept brilliantly white by magic in a way that the white stone of Stormwind could never imitate, and the red roofs of the buildings offer a stark contrast made all the more beautiful in the light of the late morning. It strikes her as strange that the time of day here in Quel’thalas is only perhaps an hour or two later than it had been in Shattrath, but that thought is quickly replaced by amazement at the tower rising before them. It stretches high into the sky, much higher than the tallest tower of Stormwind Keep, or even the highest-reaching spire of the Violet Hold in Dalaran. She has to crane her neck to see the very top of it, adorned with the wide-spread wings of a phoenix that rise into a massive display of the blood elves’ most prominent symbol. Her wonder undoubtedly shows on her face, and beside her, Tyri’el lets out a short laugh.

“It’s beautiful,” Violet says, eyes wide like the child she feels herself to be in this moment. “What is it?”

“Sunfury Spire,” Tyri’el replies, wishing he could see the city around him with even a fraction of her excitement. Instead, it’s filled with restless ghosts and bitter memories, and he tries to drown out the gentle trickling of water from the fountain he knows is right behind them. He’d often stared up at the spire as a small child, even before it was destroyed and rebuilt and given his family name, but now he can barely stand to look at it, let alone imagine himself walking into it as he knows he has to. He continues, tongue heavy in his mouth. “It’s the palace of Silvermoon.”

“It’s beautiful,” Violet repeats, eyes roving the square around them, and she shifts her gaze to look at Tyri’el when she realizes how tense he is as he stands beside her. She lowers her voice, keenly aware of Beleron as he emerges from the portal behind them. “I’m right here, Tyri’el.”

“I know,” he says, looking down at his feet where they stand on the familiar stonework.

“You there,” Beleron says, calling to a pair of patrolling guards. The elves stop, snapping easily into a salute despite their massive shields and double-bladed swords.

“Hail, Praetor Sunfury,” one says, felfire eyes flicking past him to Tyri’el and Violet. “What would you wish of us?”

“The human,” Beleron grumbles, gesturing with his head to Violet as he approaches them. “Keep her here until my nephew and I return, and keep your eyes on her always. She’s prone to slipping from her keepers if given the slightest chance.”

“As you wish, Praetor. Is she a prisoner?”

“Not yet,” Beleron replies, ignoring the confused glance exchanged between the two guards. He returns to Tyri’el, beckoning to him. “Come. We shouldn’t keep the Regent Lord waiting.”

“What are they for?” Violet asks, looking to the guards while subtly shifting her weight to assure herself that she’s still carrying her dagger inside her boot. The weight of the kaldorei blade presses against her calf and she takes momentary solace in it, but it lasts only a second before the guards approach her and she tenses.

“To keep you in line,” Beleron replies.

“I’m perfectly capable of behaving myself without supervision,” Violet says, heart hammering in her chest despite her sharp words. In such an open, airy space made of such light stone, there’s very little chance she could blend in with her surroundings, even if she utilized her stealth training. Her grip tightens on Tyri’el, and he places a hand on her shoulder to draw her out of her rising panic.

“Don’t try my patience, uncle. She stays with me.”

“Tyri’el,” Beleron begins, a long-winded speech building from those three syllables, but Tyri’el halts it by moving away from him without another word. Violet walks with him, casting a look over her shoulder at Beleron that conveys both a silent warning and an air of smugness.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she says quietly, dropping her hands to her sides as the sun beats down on them. The Spire looms over them, a long, red-carpeted ramp flanked on each side by armed guards reaching out before it, and Violet tamps down on the overwhelming desire to run and hide.

“Neither should I,” Tyri’el replies, pointedly ignoring the incredulous looks directed towards them by the guards they pass. “Don’t worry. No one will dare lay a finger on you so long as I’m beside you.”

“I know that’s meant to reassure me, but it’s no less harrowing on my nerves than a stroll through Stormwind would be on yours.” Violet speaks from the corner of her mouth, keeping her head down to avoid the eyes of the guards who could reach out flay her alive before she’d have a chance to scream.

“Believe me when I say I would much rather stare down Varian Wrynn than do what’s expected of me now,” Tyri’el says, wishing the already lengthy ramp was at least a mile longer. Violet can’t help but let out an undignified snort in reply.

“Clearly you’ve never met the man.”

“And you have?”

“Yes, actually, and I’m certain this Lor’themar fellow isn’t nearly as…” Violet quiets herself as they near the threshold of the Spire, almost holding her breath in anticipation of a less-than-warm welcome. Tyri’el’s gait falters beside her, and she touches his arm for only a moment in hope that she might bolster his courage. They step together from the blinding sunlight into the relative dark of the chamber within, and as her eyes adjust, Violet can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. For such a magnificent palace, what she assumes to be the throne room leaves much to be desired. She thinks of the throne room in Stormwind, of the magnificent Lionseat held there, and finds that there’s nothing even partially resembling a throne to be seen anywhere in the circular chamber before her. At the center of the room stand three elves, their hushed conversation stopping as the newcomers enter.

One of them begins to speak, giving Tyri’el a traditional greeting in Thalassian. He stops mid-word, the one eye not covered with an eyepatch widening upon seeing that Tyri’el isn’t alone. Violet might consider his voice pleasant, and perhaps even think him handsome, if every muscle in his body wasn’t now tensed like an animal waiting to pounce. His fingers twitch like he might reach for the sword strapped to his hip, but he remains mostly still, glancing sideways at the elf to his right.

Violet thinks this one must be a ranger of some sort, judging by his rugged leather armor and the bow slung across his back, and he takes a step forward, hand on the hilt of a shortsword hanging from his belt. On the other side of the one-eyed elf is a dark-haired figure dressed in long, red robes. An aura of power radiates off of him, apparent even to someone like Violet with no arcane affinity whatsoever. He’s most likely scowling, but she can’t tell underneath the high cowl covering the lower half of his face. If the murderous gleam in his eyes is any indication, however, he may very well be baring his teeth at her beneath the finely-embroidered cloth.

 _“Who is the human?”_ The pale-haired ranger asks in Thalassian, and the others look to Tyri’el expectantly.

 _“Stay your hand, Halduron,”_ Tyri’el replies, glancing sideways to see that Violet is frozen in place, her eyes fixed on the carpet beneath her feet. _“She is my guest.”_

The three share a look of mild shock between them, and the one Violet thinks to be the leader lets out a throaty chuckle.

_“There it is, Rommath. You wanted more proof he was, indeed, Kael’s son.”_

_“I was referring to a sworn statement from his mother,”_ the dark-haired mage replies, looking Violet up and down.

 _“She’s even blonde,”_ the ranger says, unable to contain his amusement.

 _“If you’re done fawning like a schoolgirl, Halduron, I believe we have rather pressing business at hand.”_ Beleron comes to stand behind Tyri’el, nodding in greeting to the one-eyed elf. He addresses Violet in Common, pointing to one of the floor cushions off to one side of the room. “Sit, and stay put.”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Violet replies, meeting Tyri’el’s eyes for a moment. He’s terrified, she can tell, and she wants nothing more than to pull him into a tight hug, but under the hawkish gaze of the other elves, she settles for a meager smile and does as she’s been told.

 _“I trust she won’t cause any trouble,”_ the dark-haired elf says, and Tyri’el holds in an exasperated sigh.

“No, Rommath,” he replies. “She will not.”

“Very well. Shall I, Regent Lord?” Rommath looks to the leader, who nods, and he begins to cast a portal. A room is visible on the other side, and Violet assumes it must be another part of the Spire, remembering what Tyri’el had said about the amount of power needed for long-range portals. The elves file through it, Tyri’el casting one last desperate look in Violet’s direction before disappearing through the magical gateway. Rommath calls to the guards stationed on either side of the main entrance and issues a short command while pointing to Violet before stepping through the portal. It snaps shut behind him, and the guards come to stand on either side of Violet, making their new duties as clear as her reflection cast in the gleaming gold of their blades. She hugs her knees to her chest, asking the Light to give Tyri’el strength and comfort as she cannot.

The room they emerge into is the Regent Lord’s office, Tyri’el finds, and it does absolutely nothing good for his already frayed nerves. He wishes that Violet could be with him for this, knowing the courage her presence brings, but also very aware that his insistence would likely spawn far more trouble than he would want to put her through. Still, he’s uneasy at the thought of leaving her alone in a Horde city, regardless of his faith in her ability to fend for herself.

“I trust you are aware of why you’re here, Tyri’el.”

“Yes, Lor’themar, I am,” Tyri’el replies with a leaden tongue, sitting when the Regent Lord gestures to a pair of sofas off to one side of the large room. Beleron sits beside him, and Lor’themar and Rommath take their seats on the sofa opposite them. Halduron chooses to stand, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the arm of the sofa occupied by his colleagues. They’re all scrutinizing Tyri’el, and he does his best to square his shoulders and look the part of the heir to the throne, no matter how much he wishes he could teleport himself from the room and take Violet up on her offer of running away and never looking back.

“For the record,” Lor’themar begins, shifting his weight and showing for just a moment that he might be uncomfortable with the current situation, “prior to your journey to Tempest Keep, you were completely unaware of your heritage, as it were?”

“Yes,” Tyri’el replies, and the Regent Lord’s expression changes by only a fraction, though not into anything he can identify with certainty. “I had no idea.”

“What did Kael say on the matter?” Rommath asks, pulling down the cowl covering his mouth. “Specifically.”

Thinking back, Tyri’el sifts through the rush of words he’d exchanged with his father, the conversation coming back to him as if traveling through a long, dark tunnel.

“He…he told me that when my grandmother died, my mother spent time in Silvermoon, and that he’d returned from Dalaran for the funeral. That they’d…” He trails off, cheeks burning, and shakes his head. “I believed him when he told me I was…I am…his son.”

“And do you still believe it?” It’s Halduron who speaks, watching the younger elf with no trace of his earlier mirth.

“Much as part of me wishes it wasn’t…yes, it still feels to be the truth.”

“Then you know that you are now in a position to take his place on the throne.” Lor’themar watches him with practiced neutrality, and he feels exceedingly small under the intensity of his gaze. Tyri’el nods, words failing him. “Word of the prince’s death will spread quickly once it reaches our borders, and it’s imperative that we have a solid plan of action in place for your ascension into power before there’s a chance for our people to succumb to panic.”

“We are willing to accommodate most anything you feel is needed for a smooth transition,” Halduron says. “I have a hand-picked detail ready to assume responsibility of your personal security matters.”

“I…this is very…” Try as he might, Tyri’el can’t form proper sentences. Though not explicitly stated, he’s beginning to understand that they’re giving him no room to refuse his title. In their minds, they’ve already made him king. The room around him seems to shrink, and his breaths come in short, hurried rasps as he frantically tries to find something - anything - to keep him grounded in reality.

“We understand that learning of your heritage in the manner you did has been taxing, but the sooner terms are agreed upon, the sooner you can begin to honor your father and grandfather with your reign.” Though his words are steady, Rommath seems to struggle with his statement, and Tyri’el can hardly blame him. Rommath was one of Kael’thas’s closest friends and confidants, having left his prince in Outland to bring the temporary solution of energy siphoning to the people of Quel’Thalas. Kael’thas’s death must be affecting him greatly, undoubtedly more than most, and Tyri’el spares a moment of empathy for the raven-haired elf before his thoughts begin to race once more.

“It is no easy task to undertake, but know that you have our full support in it, Tyri’el,” Lor’themar says, no doubt able to see the young elf barely keeping himself together. “We have every confidence that, though the process may be unexpected and, at first, arduous, you will be a leader that will bring unity and hope to our people. You will make your predecessors proud.”

“Forgive me, Regent Lord, but I do not hold your same confidences,” Tyri’el says, wiping his palms on his trousers. Lor’themar frowns, an expression echoed on the faces of everyone else present.

“You may take some time to think on what you will require to make a successful transition. As Halduron said, we are will to accommodate most anything you would wish.”

“Almost anything,” Beleron says, and Tyri’el bites the inside of his cheek to keep his tongue still. He knows exactly what his uncle is referring to - rather, exactly who he’s referring to. “A king must be prudent in his choices.”

“I am capable of such reasoning, uncle,” Tyri’el snaps through a set jaw. He turns his attention to Lor’themar, who had been watching their interaction with a casually piqued eyebrow. “May I take the day to think on my needs, sir?”

“Given the circumstances, it should be I who is calling you sir,” the Regent Lord replies, but nods. “The day is yours to think,Tyri’el. But come nightfall, we will need to reconvene and make clear your intentions going forward.”

“Until tonight, then,” Tyri’el says, standing quickly and dipping into an awkward bow. He exits the room with as much dignity and grace as he can muster, but he’s well aware of how flustered he must look and can’t bring himself to care. The halls of Sunfury Spire are familiar enough to him that he makes it back to the ground floor in good time, finding Violet exactly where he’d last seen her. She looks up when she sees him approaching, simultaneously relieved to see him and worried for him when his distress becomes evident in his hurried strides and furrowed brow. The guards stationed on either side of her begin to protest as Tyri’el approaches, but their words fall on deaf ears as he reaches down to grab her arm. The two disappear in the next second, reappearing somewhere outside the spire, under the shade of a white-barked tree with golden leaves. Tyri’el lets himself fall against the trunk, his back hitting the wood with an unceremonious _thunk_ that hurts more than he lets show on his face.

“What happened?” Violet asks, standing as Tyri’el buries his face in his hands. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t see a way out of this. They want to make me king and I…I can’t say no.”

“Of course you can,” Violet says, standing in front of him with her hands on either shoulder. “By definition, you’re the one who gets to make the rules, right?”

“In theory, yes,” he replies, dragging his hands down his face. “In practice, however…”

“Their idea of security leaves something to be desired if they let their would-be king run off without an escort.”

“Lor’themar has given me the day to think on my demands.” Tyri’el laughs dryly. “Demands. As if I’m a hostage to be negotiated.”

“Then you haven’t agreed to anything?”

“Not officially. Until nightfall, I’m still myself, I suppose.”

“You would still be yourself, even as king,” Violet says, her voice quieting as the sentence goes on. She plays with the collar of his shirt, with the brass buttons on his silken vest, and tries not to think too long on the fact that this may be the last chance she has to spend time with him. Tyri’el stills her hands, holding them against his chest as he searches her face. She looks up at him, biting her lip to keep her tears at bay, but the fear and anguish fueling them still shows in her pale eyes.

“What is it?” Tyri’el asks, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. “I don’t like to see such sadness in your eyes if I can help it.”

Violet holds his gaze for only a moment longer, looking down and away while shaking her head.

“It’s nothing,” she assures him, forcing up as bright a smile as she can manage. “Why don’t we find something to keep your mind from this evening, hm? There must be some kind of fun to be had in this city.”

“Not as much as one might think,” Tyri’el replies, looking around. “Fun is a luxury most of us haven’t been able to afford these past few years, myself included.”

“I can smell the ocean,” Violet says, though she can’t see much beyond the white walls all around them. “I’d love to see it.”

A hint of a smile touches Tyri’el’s lips, and he nods, closing his eyes for a moment. They leave the city behind, and soon they’re standing with their feet in near-white sand, only a few paces from the crashing surf of an empty beach. Violet clings to him through the teleportation spell, hesitantly opening one eye one she feels herself on solid ground once more. Her eyes light up upon seeing their new surroundings, and she immediately bends over to pull off her boots and abandon them as she sprints to the water’s edge. The small waves that lick at her bare feet are cold this far north, but the sharp smell of saltwater and seaweed are like a comforting hug to her, taking her back to when she was just a small girl. This beach is far less dreary than the coasts of Gilneas, but for the span of a few breaths, it’s just like coming home. Tyri’el comes to stand beside her, his boots left in the dry sand behind them, and puts his arm around her to shield her from some of the cool wind blowing off the water.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Mm, I should be thanking you,” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. “I never would have made it through the last week without you.”

“You would have. You’re much stronger than you give yourself credit for, you know.” Violet lifts her head without warning, and Tyri’el’s lips end up dragging against her temple. He keeps them there, feeling her chest hitch with a startled breath, but she makes no indication of wanting to move from the embrace. It’s only when he realizes she’s shaking with silent tears that he pulls back to look at her.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and she shakes her head, clearing her cheeks of tears with her fingertips.

“It’s nothing, really. Let’s just…let’s just enjoy the day while we still have it.” She takes his hand, pulling him along with her to walk in the damp sand at the edge of the surf. They collect their boots and walk along the beach, the white sand seeming to stretch on forever ahead of them. Tyri’el frequently looks over at her as they walk, finding that she’s fighting back tears, but he hasn’t the faintest idea what to say to her and stays quiet, hoping she’ll speak when she feels ready. He prays against reason that the day will last forever, that Belore will make some exception for him as future king and bend the laws of the universe to allow them more time. It’s a frivolous thought, he knows, and as the silent minutes inch closer to an hour, he begins to feel that he’s on a walk to the gallows.

“Let’s sit,” he says finally, tugging her from the edge of the shore into drier sand. She comes without complaint, sitting next to him and taking a conjured waterskin from him when he offers it to her. Each sip threatens her already uneasy stomach, and she sets the waterskin in her lap with a sigh. Tyri’el looks over and puts his arm around her. “Copper for your thoughts?”

“I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the ocean,” Violet says after a pause. It isn’t what she’d wanted to say, but the words stick in her throat at the mere thought of telling him what she hadn’t been able to since he’d nearly died. “It reminds me of home.”

“Gilneas?”

“And Stormwind,” Violet replies, nodding.

“Would you go back if you had the chance?” Tyri’el asks, seeing the homesickness in her eyes as she watches the sun glint off the water. “To either?”

“Perhaps Gilneas, if the wall ever opened again.” She bites her lip, and tears return to the corners of her eyes. “But not Stormwind. I have no one to go back to there. Just old wounds I’d rather not tear open.”

Violet takes a handful of sand and lets it slip from between her fingers, watching the grains carry on the breeze. Thinking for a moment, she uncorks the waterskin and dumps its contents onto the ground, scraping the now-damp sand together to start to form it into a mound. Without a word, Tyri’el summons more water for them both, starting on a sandcastle of his own. They work in comfortable silence, Violet taking great pains to craft a miniature version of Greymane Manor, complete with an abandoned feather for a final touch. She smiles to herself, proud of her work, and looks over to see what Tyri’el’s managed to come up with.

“That’s cheating,” she huffs, seeing an intricately-crafted replica of what she recognizes as Falcon Watch spread out before him.

“I wasn’t aware this was a competition,” he replies, weaving threads of magic into the wet sand to make complex structures that defy normal physics. He smirks at her. “And no rules were set beforehand.”

Violet stands, brushing her hands together to rid them of sand, and walks around his creation with her hands on her hips. It’s expertly made, down to the little sand elves and dragonhawks populating the tiers, and the revolving spheres atop the tower on the highest level. He looks up at her, too late in noticing the mischievous glint in her eye. She jumps with both feet, crashing into the sand settlement to stomp all over it mercilessly, sending the broken threads of magic shimmering into the air to disappear. Tyri’el sputters, looking up at her incredulously.

“What the hell was that for?”

Violet brushes the sand from her trousers, satisfied with the carnage she’s unleashed.

“Fel reaver,” she says over her shoulder, shrugging as she turns to walk nonchalantly away from him. Tyri’el blinks, looking from her to the decimated remains of his masterpiece, and a wicked grin overcomes him. Violet hears him jump to his feet, looking back to see him charging down the beach after her. She lets out shriek of surprise and breaks into a run, splashing through the shallows of the surf in an attempt to out-pace him.

“You won’t get away with this, traitor!” Tyri’el calls, muttering under his breath to turn a patch of water into sheer ice ahead of her. Violet is moving too fast to avoid it and she skids across it, thrown off balance and only kept upright by Tyri’el as he teleports himself to her location and wraps his arms around her waist.

“Death to the elves!” She cries as he slings her over his shoulder and wades out into the water. “Unhand me!”

“Silence!” Tyri’el says, moving into the surf up past his knees. “I must avenge my brethren!”

“Oh, don’t you _dare_ ,” Violet says when she realizes his plan. "Tyri’el, I swear—”

“For Quel’Thalas!” He hauls her off his shoulder and throws her into the water, nearly losing his balance as he shields his face from the resulting splash. Violet surfaces, coughing and spitting out saltwater as she sits up and pushes her soaked hair out of her face. She glares up at him, and he laughs at her petulant expression, offering her his hand. A grunt is her only response, and she takes his hand and allows him to pull her to her feet. He smooths her hair back, picking out a stray piece of seaweed, and offers a smug smile.

“Light, what are you, three?” She asks, wiping at her nose with another cough.

“I can be immature, just like some other people,” he replies, barely registering her growing smirk as he notices how her clothes now stick close to her skin.

“For the Alliance!” Violet yells, tackling Tyri’el without warning and pushing him into the water. They tumble together, coming up for air before resuming their struggle, both managing to dunk the other’s head beneath the surface a few times before they’re gasping and crawling back towards the shore. They collapse on the wet sand, laughing between coughs.

“I think that makes us even,” Violet says, wiping the water out of her eyes.

“You still ruined a perfectly nice sandcastle,” Tyri’el says, catching his breath as he looks over at her with a grin that she readily returns.

“No rules were set beforehand,” Violet says, wrinkling her nose as she mimics his accent.

“You wound me,” he replies, pulling her closer. She rests her head on his chest, shivering against him even though he’s as warm as always, and her heart sinks when the thought invades her mind again that her time with him is slowly running out. The beach around them is bright and the sky is clear and blue, but she feels as if a storm cloud is slowly descending over her, sapping her ability to enjoy being so close to him. A sob makes its way out of her chest, and Tyri’el looks down at her, finding her with her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth slightly open like she’s in pain. “What’s wrong?”

He sits up, pulling her into his lap.

“Please don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

“I don’t know,” she admits, huddling closer to him, desperate to collect as much of his warmth as she can manage. “I feel as if this is the last time I’ll ever see you.”

“It won’t be. I’ll make certain of it.”

“You can’t possibly promise me that,” Violet says, fingers curling into his shirt.

“Yes, I can.” Tyri’el lifts her head with his thumb under her chin, but she turns away from him.

“No, you can’t, Tyri’el. You’re…you’re a Light-damned king now and I’m…” She shakes her head, shoulders falling. “I’m just a human.”

“You have never been just a human to me,” Tyri’el says, feeling her start to pull away from him. “To hell with anyone who says otherwise.”

“The world doesn’t work like that,” Violet says, watching a sea bird glide over the water, held aloft only by a gust of wind. She envies the creature for its freedom. “You and I both know that I don’t belong here. I’m not a fitting match for a king of my own kind, much less a king of elves.”

“Look at me,” Tyri’el says, and after a moment, she lifts her eyes to meet his. “What’s brought this on?”

“What happens to me when you take the throne?” She asks quietly, feeling very much like a small child begging for comfort after waking alone in the dark.

“I don’t know. But I’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll be made to return to the Undercity,” Violet says, ignoring his words. “To Sylvanas. I’ll go back to being a slave, and I’ll never see you again. You’ll find a proper elvish bride, and I’ll just be—”

“Violet—”

“No, Tyri’el,” she says, gripping his vest hard enough that the soaked fabric rips under the strain. “I won’t give you up. I won’t let one more person I love be taken from me, by death or decorum or a Light-damned crown!”

“Violet—”

“I know I’m not what you need, and I’m so sorry for it, but I love you, Tyri’el, and if this is all we get then I—”

The kiss that halts her words is barely a brush of their lips, but the emotion behind it is so painfully clear that Violet immediately pulls him back to her when he starts to move away. He holds her gently, like she’s made of glass and he’s afraid he might shatter her, but his lips move against hers with a fervor that belies the intensity of his need to have her close. Violet nearly whimpers when they break apart, but she rests her forehead against his, their lips still close enough that they almost touch as they catch their breath.

“You are exactly what I need,” he says, opening his eyes slowly to find hers still closed. He cradles her cheek in his hand, waiting the span of a heartbeat before kissing her again, this time softer. She opens her eyes as he pulls back, certain he’ll dissolve in her arms like a cruel mirage, but he holds her tight, grounding her in the moment.

“They’ll never let…” She begins, unable to finish the thought.

“I don’t want this throne,” he says, brushing away her tears before they have a chance to fall. “I refuse to become king if it means you can’t sit beside me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” he says quietly, taking her hands in his. “If nothing else makes sense right now, just know that I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

Around them, the world continues to move, but for now, these few moments of rare peace are enough.

 _They_ are enough.


	36. Nowhere Is Safe

“What happens now?”

The question has been on the tip of her tongue for some time now, and when it refuses to remain unvoiced, Violet lifts her head from Tyri’el’s shoulder and opens one eye against the glaring sunlight to look over at him. His eyes are closed, and for a moment she thinks he might have fallen asleep while they’d been basking in the warm sand in an effort to dry their still-wet clothes. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and he turns his head, one felfire eye opening in her direction.

“Anything you want,” he says, rolling onto his side to shield her face from the sun. “We still have at least six hours until sundown.”

“I meant…what happens with us?” She says, cheeks warm with more than just the beginnings of a sunburn.

“Much the same, I suppose,” Tyri’el replies, brushing a few errant grains of sand from the bridge of her nose. “Anything you want.”

“That’s a dangerous amount of power to grant me.” Violet stretches up to kiss him, their difference in height evident even when lounging in the sand. Tyri’el responds in kind, a smirk blooming as he pulls back.

“It’s a calculated risk,” he says, and Violet smiles, taking his face in her hand and tracing her thumb across his cheek.

“You’re beautiful like this,” she say quietly, memorizing every line of his face.

“Like what?”

“When you smile. Shame it’s so rare.”

Tyri’el’s cheeks color, and his eyes slip closed as he leans into her touch.

“It’s becoming more commonplace.”

“Good,” Violet says, kissing his nose before sitting up to brush the sand from her arms. “Frowns don’t suit you.”

They help each other to tidy up, though sand does still cling to their damp hair and clothes despite their best efforts.

“We should start back towards the city,” Tyri’el says, unable to contain the sigh of disappointment that wells in his chest. “Much as I wish we could stay like this.”

“We could,” Violet offers, and Tyri’el considers it for a moment before shaking his head.

“Best to get it over and done with,” he says, standing slowly and offering her his hand. She takes it, echoing his sigh.

“What will you tell them?”

“That I’m not the king they’re looking for. That I likely never will be.”

“Never is an awful long time,” Violet replies, staring out over the water. “I won’t be around forever to keep you from your birthright.”

“Don’t say that,” Tyri’el says, the command in his voice uncharacteristic enough that she immediately looks up at him.

“But it’s true. I’ve really only got another fifty years, if I’m lu—”

“Don’t _say_ that.” His arms come around her and he clings to her desperately, a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat at what she’s implying. The thought has been skirting around the edges of his conscience, that elves and humans have drastically different life spans, but until now, he’s managed to keep it at bay. Fifty years is nothing to one of his kind, nothing more than a year or two would be to a human. Still, it seems like only a few moments in his mind, and he breathes deep her familiar scent to ground himself in the present.

“I will give you every moment of the time I have left,” Violet murmurs from where her face is buried in the crook of his neck.

“And I will take none of them for granted,” Tyri’el replies, wishing for the second time today that Belore will grant him the impossible miracle of more time with her. Violet lifts her head to look at him.

“Come,” she says with a soft smile that never fails to chase away the shadows lurking in the corners of his heart. “I want to see your homeland.”

They walk away from the shore, gathering their boots and making for the cliffs that rise up at the edge of the dunes. Tyri’el leads Violet along the narrow path that winds its way up the sheer rock face until they’re all the way at the top, and they turn back to look out at the sea. It’s a breathtaking view, and as Violet looks out over the water, she sees the barest hint of a silhouette on the horizon.

“Is there an island to the north?” She asks, looking to Tyri’el when he doesn’t reply right away.

“Quel’Danas,” he says, nodding stiffly. He sees the familiar outline and a dry ache starts in the back of his throat. “The holiest place in all of Quel’Thalas. It houses what remains of the Sunwell.”

“Arthas destroyed it when the Scourge invaded,” Violet says, remembering some of the history she’d been taught as a young teen.

“Arthas poisoned it, and in turn, it poisoned us.” Tyri’el turns away, unable to look at it anymore. “It was we who were forced to destroy it, in the hope that it would stop the spread of corruption. We didn’t know what the loss would do to us. We didn’t know how addicted to its energies we’d become until it was too late.”

Tyri’el walks away from the cliff, moving up into the hills beyond with Violet following close behind. They come over the crest of a hill and the white walls of Silvermoon City appear in the distance, the high-reaching tip of Sunfury Spire just barely visible beyond them. Violet takes a moment to look out over the sea one last time, sprinting to catch up with Tyri’el’s brisk pace as he moves towards the west. A footworn path takes them through a forest of white-barked trees, their golden leaves shimmering in the high sun of the early afternoon, and they soon come to a bridge that joins an island to the mainland. Now traveling on a paved avenue, they move away from the water and towards a great arch that breaks the never-ending expanse of the city’s walls that stretches out in both directions. Violet expects the space beyond to be a bustling cityscape like what little of Silvermoon she’s seen so far, but what she finds on the other side of the long passageway is quite the opposite.

Buildings lay in ruins, their once gleaming stone now dull and overtaken with rampant weeds and vegetation, and decrepit fountains brim with dark, stagnant water. Market carts sit abandoned in the streets, their deteriorating wares spilling out onto the dirt-covered flagstones, and the broken glass of smashed windows litters the ground to catch and reflect rays of sunlight. It reminds Violet of the ruins of Capital City, so filled with everyday items hastily abandoned and no doubt looted in the aftermath. Tyri’el keeps his eyes on the ground only a few paces ahead of him, not wanting to look up to see the decay around him.

“These were the slums,” he says, anticipating the question forming on Violet’s lips. “The part of the city where the poorest citizens lived, and the Scourge tore through them quickly on their march north.”

“No efforts have been made to rebuild?” Violet asks, and he shakes his head, still not looking up as they move farther into the ruins.

“My people were driven nearly to extinction. What few of us remain occupy the intact portion of the city with plenty of room to spare.” Tyri’el glances over at Violet when she takes his hand. “This place has been left to the Wretched.”

Movement catches Violet’s eye before she can ask what he means, and she looks up, seeing a shape moving amongst the rubble not twenty feet from them. Whatever it is, its long ears are the only thing that hint to her that it might have once been an elf. With skin the sickly purple of a budding bruise and nothing but the sharp angles of bones underneath to make up its body, the creature sniffs at the air and turns its milky, deep-sunken eyes on them. Its frail frame moves with frightening speed as it barrels towards them, arms outstretched as its cracking lips draw back to reveal rotting teeth, and it lets out a grating wail unlike anything Violet has ever heard before. The sound sends a violent shiver up her spine and she reaches for the dagger in her boot, straightening up in time to see a shard of ice leave Tyri’el’s fingertips and slice the thing’s head clean off. The body crumples to the ground, dissolving into nothing more than a pile of crumbling dust within a matter of seconds.

“We should make haste towards Falconwing Square,” Tyri’el says, grabbing her arm. “Others will surely catch my scent.”

“Others? What was that?” Violet asks, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Tyri’el, you’re hurting me.”

He pauses, having been unaware of how tightly he’s gripping her arm, and drops his hand to his side.

“Forgive me,” he says, cheeks darkening in shame when she rubs at her arm. “But this place isn’t safe, and I can’t summon a portal without drawing a swarm.”

Taking her hand gently in his, Tyri’el pulls her along with him, and they race along the decrepit avenue and over a bridge. Far below, an arcane sentry like the one Violet recalls seeing in Beleron’s study ambles along, seemingly moving without purpose. More of the sickly elf-creatures mill about in the open spaces between buildings, thankfully unaware of the two figures making haste through the ruins. They move southward, towards a corner of the city that looks more intact than the rest, but only slightly. Sin’dorei fill the square around a working fountain, turning their attention to the newcomers as they pass through the last of the ruined dwellings.

“I hadn’t anticipated that they’d become more deranged,” Tyri’el says, leaning against a stack of crates to catch his breath. Violet is less winded, but she still takes a moment to recover beside him. “I’m sorry to have risked your safety so carelessly.”

“They used to be elves, didn’t they?” Violet asks, accepting a conjured waterskin from Tyri’el, who nods.

“When the Sunwell was destroyed, our addiction to the arcane energies of the Sunwell was made painfully manifest. Most of my people lived their whole lives saturated in its essence, and to lose it meant that some went mad with hunger.” Tyri’el swallows hard, remembering the devastating withdrawals that had him begging for death before too long. “It was made infinitely worse for those of us who are most in tune with the arcane.”

He reaches into his pocket, retrieving a small, pale pink crystal that hums faintly with energy.

“It was our alliance with Illidan that provided us a way to sate our hunger. He taught us to draw mana from other beings, and Kael discovered a way to store that energy inside crystals for later consumption. It’s only a small measure of relief, but it’s enough to keep us sane.” His fingers curl into a tight fist around the stone, and he shoves it back into his pocket. “We’re no more than addicts now, endlessly stuck living for our next fix.”

Frowning, Violet remains silent but takes his hand, thinking back to the night she was huddled inside the cellar of the Undercity inn, riding out the mana withdrawal caused by Beleron’s invasion of her mind. If she, so unused to the arcane, was made so sick by the loss of mana, she reasons it must have been excruciating to have spent seven hundred years bathed in it, only to lose it completely and suffer the resulting withdrawal.

“Where to now? It’s nowhere near sundown,” she says finally, eyeing the position of the sun over the top of the square’s walls. Tyri’el straightens up, having rested enough to return his heartbeat and breathing to normal, and looks around.

“I suppose we should make our way back into the city,” he says, ignoring the incredulous stares of the elves inhabiting the square. “I want to waste every last second I can before I’m made to return to Lor’themar.”

Moving to walk with himself between Violet and the curious onlookers, Tyri’el puts his arm around her and steers her towards a small alley along the northern end of the square. Violet glances at the elves, watching to see if any of them will follow, but they stay where they are and return to their business despite their obvious interest.

“You don’t seem terribly worried about appearances,” she says, and Tyri’el snorts.

“Let them talk,” he says, kissing her temple. “With any luck, I’ll never come back here.”

“Why’s that?”

“I feel about Silvermoon the way you do about Stormwind. There’s nothing left for me here but things long since dead.”

The alleyway opens out into a wider space, a paved avenue surrounded on both sides by uneven walls that look hastily-cobbled without much care. Violet takes one step past the walls and recoils, a sick shudder coursing through her body the moment her foot touches the flagstone. Her skin crawls and her stomach turns while an overwhelming sense of dread chokes at her throat.

“Easy,” Tyri’el says, keeping her upright and muttering a spell to bring them instantly to the other side of the span of short walls.

“What…” Violet begins, the sensation dulling but still lingering for a long moment like the weight of a heavy blanket. “What in Light’s name was that?”

“We call it the Dead Scar,” Tyri’el says, pulling Violet into the alley leading back into the still-standing part of the city. “The swath of land permanently desiccated by the march of the Scourge towards Quel’Danas. Those walls were put up to keep the remaining undead trapped without a way to enter the city until the Farstriders could pick them off from the upper reaches.”

“Didn’t you feel it?” She asks him, noticing that while her legs still shake as she walks, he seems unaffected by the blighted land they’d briefly touched.

“Barely,” he admits, rubbing at her arms when she starts to shiver from a sudden wave of bone-deep chills. “Only those closely attuned to the Light seem greatly affected by the lingering necromantic energies.”

Violet frowns deeply, and though she returns to feeling normal as they move away from the Scar, she can’t shake the sensation of creeping darkness until they’re around a corner and it’s fully out of sight. They enter a large open space bustling with elves, as well as adventurers of every race of the Horde, all going about their business. It’s a marketplace of some kind, Violet thinks, seeing vendors of all varieties peddling their wares to passersby. Tyri’el pulls her behind a cluster of bushes, holding up his hand to halt her question.

“Stay here for just a moment,” he says, disappearing behind the foliage. Violet stands absolutely still, counting each breath in hopes that the next one won’t be her last. Tyri’el isn’t far away, his voice carrying clearly to her from somewhere nearby, but she knows that a human caught hiding inside the city would have little chance to explain herself if caught. Thankfully, Tyri’el returns a few moments later, carrying with him a deep blue cloak that he drapes around her shoulders before pulling up the hood. “There, that should make navigating the city a bit less nerve-wracking.”

“Won’t people notice that I don’t have giant ears sticking out of my hood?”

Tyri’el feigns a sound of offense, and Violet shoves him gently. He laughs, putting his arm around her again.

“They’ll likely think you’re a very short orc,” he says, kissing the cloth over her hair. Violet sighs, relaxing but still keeping tabs on everyone they pass in anticipation of being found out. They move across the marketplace towards a large archway, coming face-to-face with a statue of Kael’thas that’s at least three stories tall, and the rogue in Violet can’t help but calculate the black-market value of such an extravagant tribute. “I’ve always hated these statues. They’re made of solid gold but I never thought they were quite grand enough to properly honor Kael’thas.”

Tyri’el’s voice is soft as he looks up at the carved features of his father’s likeness.

“Now, I can’t help but think they’re too grand.”

The space on the other side of the strange rectangular passageway is much smaller than the marketplace, the narrow avenue winding around a long row of buildings towards the south, only to curve up towards the north again.

“Taking the long way ‘round?” Violet asks, noticing several probable shortcuts along the way that Tyri’el makes no hint of wishing to take.

“I would rather walk these haunted streets for a day than arrive at the Spire one second earlier than I can manage,” Tyri’el replies, raising the hand not holding her close and muttering a few short words. A soft wave of energy courses across her skin, and she looks at him in question, to which he responds with a finger to his lips. An arcane construct at least twice as large as the others she’s seen ambles towards them, and she feels Tyri’el hold his breath as they pass. The metal guardian pays them no mind, and they quicken their pace and hurry away from it. “It seems I’ve forgotten too much about my home. The guardians are enchanted to detect hostile forces. Humans included.”

After passing through another archway, they travel down a long avenue bordered on both sides by tall trees, some with gold leaves and others with bright crimson foliage, the beauty of the city still awe-inspiring for Violet. Tyri’el seems far less enchanted by the architecture, and Violet purposely bites her tongue to stifle the many questions and exclamations that would likely only add to his discomfort. The sounds of metal clashing with metal meets her ears, and she tenses in anticipation of some kind of conflict.

The other side of yet another archway opens up into a multi-level space filled with a forge and a space reserved for weapons training. Various races spar with each other or with training dummies, and some practice archery at a makeshift shooting range. Blacksmiths work on their crafts, the strong smell of slag and coal hanging in the warm air. As they move northward, a sound pricks at Violet’s ears, barely audible but present in a way that she can almost feel in her chest.

“Do you hear that?” She asks, stopping in the middle of the street to listen more intently. Tyri’el stops beside her, his ears finding nothing but the sounds of training from their left.

“Hear what?” He asks, and Violet shushes him, taking soft, careful steps in an attempt to locate the direction of the sound’s source. Inclining her head to one side, she kneels and places her ear to the flagstone, hearing a sound she can only liken to the continual shattering of glass. It fills her chest with unwarranted sorrow, rising steadily to a volume that hurts her ears before dying down to a softer octave of the same haunting tone.

“It’s…a song,” she says, still on her knees but straightening up to look around again. “Coming from underground.”

“A song? What’s it saying?”

“No words, but…it’s very sad. Like something in constant pain.” Violet stands, eyes finding a tall doorway with a shield and two ornate halberds hanging above it. “What is that place?”

“The headquarters of the Blood Knights,” Tyri’el says, recognizing the sigil emblazoned on the shield, and a realization hits him. “It’s M’uru.”

Violet looks at him in question, the keening song starting to grate painfully against her ears.

“The naaru we found within Tempest Keep. Kael sent it here for the city to feed from its energies.”

“You fed on a naaru?” Violet asks, eyes wide in disgusted shock.

“Personally, only a handful of times, before Kael sent it here.”

“The naaru are…they’re beings of pure Light. How…how could you?”

“We were starving,” Tyri’el replies, hating the way she’s looking at him. “I’m not proud of it.”

“You should be ashamed,” Violet insists, gaze hardening. “It’s crying out in pain. What are they doing to it down there?”

“A handful of mages found ways to siphon the Light from it, and the Grand Magister called on a group of former priests to harness the powers. They became the Blood Knights, the closest my people can come to being paladins.”

“Paladins?” Violet says, the word scoffed in outrage. “Paladins draw from the grace of the Light itself. They don’t…feed on such noble, holy creatures as the naaru.”

“I said I’m no—” Tyri’el stops mid-word, feeling a massive surge of arcane energy inbound somewhere very close to him.

“What is it?” Violet asks, seeing the sudden change in him.

“Portals. Many of them, and very large.”

“What of it?”

“Portals are heavily regulated within the city. Only a select few mages have permission to cast them, and only in very specific locations. Farstrider’s Square isn’t one of them.” Tyri’el turns, the swell of energy growing so rapidly that it nearly makes him dizzy. “There. They’re coming from inside the Blood Knight headquarters, and they’re…inbound.”

A crash sounds from inside the building, shaking the ground underneath their feet, and shouts rise from somewhere within. The inhabitants of the square halt their activities, most taking only a split second before swarming towards the building. Violet wastes no time, grabbing two shortswords from a nearby rack, and charges towards the sounds of battle. Tyri’el catches her by the shoulder.

“You can’t go in there. Someone will see you, and they might think you—”

“Unless this is some blood elf custom I’m unaware of, your city is under attack. I’m not going to stand idly by if I can be of some help.”

Tyri’el lets out a short sigh, eyes flicking to the building before returning to her.

“Stay close,” he says, and they move together. Beyond the gauzy blue curtains, the interior of the building is much darker than the glaring sun outside, and their eyes take a moment to adjust. Elves rush about the rooms, gathering weapons and shouting to each other in Thalassian, and the sounds of metal and magic echo up from a circular hole in the floor. The sorrowful song of the trapped naaru is far louder now, and Violet gets the feeling the holy being is in great distress as she races up the stairs towards the hole. Tyri’el is right beside her, and they peer over the railing into the space below, finding it engulfed in a full-blown battle. Elves in black and red plate mail that wield the Light as a weapon battle against what Violet can only assume used to be their brethren. These elves are twisted visages of their former selves, some with red or purple skin, and all of them sporting horns and spikes jutting from their shoulders. From where their hands meet their wrists, their discolored skin cracks and falls away to reveal veins of burning fel green, matching the felfire in their eyes that blazes brighter than their sin’dorei counterparts.

“Hostile?” Violet asks, and Tyri’el nods.

“Servants of the Burning Legion. Their presence can only mean — Violet, wait!”

His words come too late, drowned out by the rush of air past Violet’s ears as she hops over the landing and falls the short distance into the chamber below. She rolls to soften her fall, standing quickly to help a Blood Knight fend off an elf with near-black skin. Its blood splashes across her cheek, stinging where it makes contact, but she wipes it away with her sleeve and moves onto the enemy nearest to her. Above her, the darkened form of a naaru hovers in mid-air, its song close to deafening as it sheds waves of tainted energy over the room.

Tyri’el teleports himself into the chamber, joining in the fight as best he can without the help his staff and the enchantments laid on it. His spellcasting is still rapid and powerful, but he has nothing to use to block oncoming attacks save for hastily-erected mana barriers that last only one or two strikes before shattering.

“Do not let the naaru be taken from us!” A female blood elf’s voice rises above the din of the fight, and it seems to bolster the courage of the Blood Knights as they fight. “Push them back! For Quel’Thalas!”

One portal still sits open at the far end of the space, and a figure emerges from it, cloaked in a heavy mantle with the hood pulled up to cover their face. A large shard of crystal, pulsing with fel magic, juts from their chest too prominently to be covered by their cloak. They raise their hands, conjuring a massive arcane explosion that knocks the defenders off their feet and leaves them lying dazed on the floor. Through the haze of mana and the disorienting effects of the surge, Tyri’el lifts his head to see the cloaked figure with its hands raised, widening the portal until it towers to the full height of the room. A sun-filled courtyard is visible on the other side, one Tyri’el knows all too well, and he fights against the bonds of arcane magic keeping him and everyone else flat against the ground. The felbood elves swarm the cloaked figure, some of them falling into defensive positions, while others approach the darkened naaru and begin to pull it towards the portal with streams of magic that work like ropes around the being’s crystalline limbs.

“Fall back,” the figure barks, voice harsh as it echoes in the small chamber. “The naaru is ours!”

The felbloods move back and through the portal, dragging the naaru with them. It screams, the pitch of its wail so high and jarring that many of the Blood Knights cry out in pain, writhing under the holding spell. Violet fights the spell to drag her arms up to cover her ears, but the cry seems to pierce into her soul itself, and with its volume quickly rising, she passes out from the splitting pressure and the pain in her head. Tyri’el sees her go limp from across the chamber, calling on the energies permeating the space to push back against the holding spell, and he manages to get to his feet just as the naaru disappears through the portal and an eerie silence overcomes the whole room. The cloaked figure is the last of their party left in the room, and they hesitate upon seeing Tyri’el as he struggles to stand.

“You will pay for this,” the female blood elf says, raising her hand to throw a hammer made of pure Light in the direction of the figure. They dodge it easily, and the flash of light illuminates their features as it passes by and slams into the wall. The face beneath the hood is made painfully clear to Tyri’el, and before he can think to cry out, the figure disappears and the portal evaporates behind them. With its caster gone, the holding spell breaks and the remaining occupants of the room are free to move again. The female blood elf slams her fist on the ground, pushing her auburn hair from her face as she sits up to survey the damage. She spots Tyri’el as he staggers towards Violet where she’s still unconscious on the ground. “Tyri’el?”

“Liadrin,” Tyri’el says, looking up at her before gently shaking Violet. He lowers his voice and says her name, seeing her eyelids flutter as she comes back into consciousness. “Are you all right?”

Violet replies with a groan, even the soft tones of his voice sending shockwaves of pain through her head.

“Who is this?” Liadrin says, approaching them. “A…human? Explain yourself.”

“In due time, my lady.” Tyri’el looks up at her, their hard gazes meeting and never faltering. “Lor’themar needs to be made aware of this attack.”

“I will report to the spire shortly, once I’ve taken stock of the damage.” Liadrin nods curtly, lips pursed into a thin line, and leaves the two of them where they are, shouting orders to her Blood Knights as they begin to heal the wounded in their ranks and drag away the bodies of the fallen felbloods that litter the floor all around.

“Can you stand?” Tyri’el asks, and Violet nods, his voice muffled and sounding as if it’s coming from very far away. She’s still dizzy, but with his help, she manages to stand, leaning heavily against him for support. “Close your eyes.”

Violet obeys, and the familiar sensation of a teleportation spell surrounds her, and when she opens her eyes, she finds herself once again in the bottommost level of Sunfury Spire. Except for the guards stationed along the walls, the room is empty, and Tyri’el covers Violet’s eyes with his hand before casting another spell. They appear in Lor’themar’s office, startling the Regent Lord and his colleagues with their sudden entry. Violet staggers and Tyri’el holds her tight against him, putting one of her ears to his chest and covering the other with his free hand.

“Tyri’el, what in Belore’s na—”

“The Blood Knights have been attacked,” Tyri’el says, cutting short Lor’themar’s question. The Regent Lord stands from his desk and approaches them, flanked on either side by Rommath and Halduron.

“What do you mean, attacked?” Rommath asks, undoubtedly able to smell the thick scent of arcane residue that covers them.

“By whom?” Halduron asks, eyes flicking to the door as he draws one of his swords.

“By my father,” Tyri’el says through a set jaw.

“You are certain?” Lor’themar asks, and Tyri’el nods.

“I saw his face. I don’t know how, but he’s alive.”

“No doubt made possible by demonic sorcery,” Rommath says, voice wavering from behind his cowl. Lor’themar nods in agreement.

“What was his goal?”

“He and his felbloods stole M’uru. I can only speculate on why.”

“Where did they take the naaru?” Halduron sheathes his sword, rushing to the wall of windows that overlooks the whole of Silvermoon. “They cannot have gotten far.”

“Quel’Danas,” Tyri’el says, and a moment of tense silence falls on the room. “I saw the Sunwell Plateau through the portal.”

Lor’themar curses under his breath, scrubbing his hand down his face in a show of uncharacteristic anxiety.

“Halduron, send rangers to Orgrimmar to alert the Warchief, and place the Farstriders on high alert. Rommath, I want every available mage scouring the city for any other possible portal sites, and placing warding spells on every entrance and exit in Silvermoon.”

Both the Ranger General and Grand Magister salute with their fists over their hearts, Halduron rushing from the room and Rommath teleporting himself out to leave the other three to themselves.

“What happened to her?” Lor’themar asks, nodding to Violet, who has her eyes squeezed shut with tears streaming down her face.

“M’uru’s song,” Tyri’el replies, and Lor’themar nods.

“I will find someone to heal her,” he says leaving the room to converse with his assistant just outside the door to his office. He returns after a moment, closing the door behind him and pausing there, letting out a long breath through his nose. When he turns to face Tyri’el, the lines of his face are much deeper, and Tyri’el has to remind himself that the Regent Lord is barely four centuries older than him, though he lately appears much older. “Have you thought on your demands?”

“I have.” Tyri’el takes a steadying breath, watching Lor’themar as he moves to a side table and pulls out a decanter of dark amber liquid and three glasses. “I will not take the throne, Lor’themar.”

Some of the liquid splashes onto the table as the Regent Lord looks up at Tyri’el, the eye not covered by an eyepatch wide in confusion. He replaces the stopper and sets down the decanter.

“I would wish to understand your reasoning,” he says, returning to sit in the chair behind his desk.

“I am not a king, Lor’themar. I was raised as a noble of two great houses, but I am in no way fit to lead our people.”

“You will grow into it. No king…no leader is truly ready when the mantle falls to them.” He watches Tyri’el, coolly appraising him with the trained gaze of a Farstrider. “I can attest to that personally.”

“We are so scattered as it is, so far removed from our former peace and prosperity.” Tyri’el shakes his head. “Our people need a leader who will serve them with tact and experience as they deserve. Not a fledgling king barely able to govern himself, let alone the remainder of his race.”

Lor’themar exhales a long breath through his nose, leaning back in his chair.

“There is no way I can sway you against this decision, then?”

“No,” Tyri’el says, inwardly relieved at how calm and even his voice has stayed throughout the conversation. “There may come a day when I feel ready to take my place amongst the leaders of my bloodline, but for now, I will have nothing to do with it. I can’t give the sin’dorei what they need as you can, and have.”

“While I cannot say I agree with your decision, I can say that I admire the sentiment behind it.” Lor’themar looks up at him. “You remind me of your father in that respect.”

A short knock on the door halts their conversation, and the Regent Lord calls for them to enter. A young blood elf enters the room, her robes marking her as a priest.

“You called for me, Regent Lord?” She says, and Lor’themar nods.

“Thank you, Belestra. Please see to the young lady there.” He gestures to Violet, and Tyri’el shakes her gently so she’ll open her eyes. “I believe she suffered damage to her hearing.”

“Of course, Regent Lord,” she says, approaching Violet. Her eyes widen just a fraction as Tyri’el pulls down the hood all the way, but she raises her hands and they begin to glow with the soft hum of the Light. “May I?”

Violet looks up at Tyri’el for reassurance, and he nods. Belestra guides Violet away from him and towards one of the sofas, sitting her down before starting to heal her.

“There are others who should be made aware of the attack,” Lor’themar says, lowering his voice. “Archmage Khadgar most prominently, seeing as he serves as the intermediary between the Aldor and Scryers in Shattrath.”

“I can bring word to him,” Tyri’el says, watching Violet as he speaks. “I’ll inform Voren’thal as well.”

“I would wish to send you to Dalaran to inform Aethas, but the Kirin Tor let very few people into their city as of late.”

“I can ask Archmage Khadgar to pass it along. The Council of Six will want to know of the goings on of their former member.”

Lor’themar nods, seeming deep in thought.

“This does not bode well, Tyri’el. Access to Quel’Danas is strictly regulated by the Farstriders, and I have recieved no news of unusual activity.” The Regent Lord looks up at him. “There is no telling what the Legion will use Kael to accomplish.”

“Nothing good,” Tyri’el says, and Lor’themar nods, closing his eye.

“Belore guide us.”

“I think she’s all right now,” Belestra says, waiting a polite distance away from them with Violet close behind her. “Is there anything else you would wish of me, Regent Lord?”

“No, Belestra. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Of course,” the young elf says, bowing at the waist before leaving the room.

“We’ll leave for Shattrath if there’s nothing more to discuss,” Tyri’el says, and Lor’themar nods, straightening a pile of parchment on his desk.

“Send word once you have spoken to Archmage Khadgar and Voren’thal.” The Regent Lord looks up at both of them. “I hope this is the last time we will meet under such circumstances, but I know that it is only wishful thinking on my part.”

Violet and Tyri’el exchange sideways glances at each other, both unsure of who he’s speaking to.

“Al diel shala, Tyri’el.”

“Until we meet again, Lor’themar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Kael coming to steal M'uru is actually canon, a neat little fact I discovered while perusing the WoWPedia that of course took on a mind of its own, because too many feels is not enough feels. It's also canon that Kael sent M'uru back to Silvermoon after he and his crew took over Tempest Keep, and the Blood Knights were formed when some mages decided, "Hey, we can totally eat this thing, right?" Good times.


	37. Restless Hearts

Tyri’el has never been especially prone to nightmares. They’d only ever affected him after the Scourge invasion, when he’d spend countless nights waking in wide-eyed terror as he re-lived the deaths he’d been powerless to stop, but they’d tapered off as the monotony of his life in the Undercity had set in. If he’d lost sleep recently, it had been because his mind had refused to slow, never letting him dip into the relief of unconsciousness. Tonight, however, he falls asleep easily, utterly overwhelmed by everything the day has brought upon him. He spends a few hours in a deep, dreamless state, until images slowly worm their way into his mind’s eye. They’re nonsensical at first, just flashes of color and bits of distorted sound, but they soon start to solidify until the nightmare is fully-fledged.

Kael’thas stands before him, resplendent in robes of crimson and gold, wearing a crown of bright metal wrought into the shape of an ascending phoenix. Al’ar, feathers burning with ethereal fire, circles overhead before the cloudless sky streaks with a flash of green lightning and felfire rains from the cracks forming like broken glass. Demons pour in from the edges of his vision, and a massive hand erupts from the ground and reaches up to crush Al’ar in a fatal stranglehold. Another hand reaches for Kael’thas, engulfing him in a swath of green flame, and the once-prince screams for his son to flee, to save himself and his people. Tyri’el tries - Belore’s mercy, does he try - but the hand finds him, too, and the world goes black, his own screams echoing in the abyss all around him.

With a pathetic echo of that same scream, Tyri’el awakens in the darkness of his room, the smell of fel choking his nose for a moment before it's gone and he’s alone with the hammering of his pulse. He’s drenched in sweat, a sick heat clinging to his skin as his whole body shakes. He feels faint, feels nauseated, and all he can do for the longest moment is stare up at the ceiling and tell himself over and over that it was just a dream. It had felt too real, something his mind won’t let him ignore, and he stumbles out of bed to move into the bathroom where he splashes cold water on his face. The mirror above the wash basin provides an unsolicited reminder of his father’s face, a face so like his own, and he leaves the room before he can act on the desire to shatter the glass with his fist.

The house is quiet, the other residents having long since gone to sleep, and he travels down the hallway to the door he knows belongs to Violet. She’d told him in no uncertain terms to come to her if the day’s events proved too much for him, and he opens the door without a sound. She’s asleep as he expects, curled up in the blankets with one hand clutching her mother’s locket, and for a moment he thinks to climb into bed next to her and pull her close, but his bare feet stay rooted in the doorway. There’s something in the pit of his stomach that keeps him silent and still, sleeping like a coiled serpent, and he watches Violet for the span of a few breaths before backing out of the room and closing the door.

Tyri’el moves down the stairs, searching for someplace to be alone with his thoughts, and finds himself at the door to the back garden, fumbling clumsily with the knob to let himself out into the cool air of the night. It’s marginally less suffocating out under the lazy twinkling of the starry sky, and he makes his way through the maze of potted plants and low flower beds towards the bench he knows is waiting near the back fence. A soft grunt interrupts his rushing thoughts, and he stops mid-step, squinting in the darkness to find the form of a crimson-furred lynx curled beneath the bench. The beast slinks out from under the bench and approaches Tyri’el, rubbing its shoulder against his leg and winding around him with short purrs rippling in its chest. He bends to pet it, eyes finding the silhouette occupying the bench.

“You should be sleeping,” Soven says, not turning to look at him. “I’ve been told you had a trying day.”

“No more so than any other,” Tyri’el replies, straightening up as the other elf snaps his fingers to call the lynx back to his side. He stands in the dark for a moment, weighing his options, before moving to sit on the bench. Soven says nothing, not even looking over at him, and Tyri’el forces himself to speak again. “Mother spoke to you, then?”

“She did.”

“How much did she tell you?”

“Enough.”

Tyri’el looks over at him, seeing him with a clenched jaw as he uses his pet for a distraction.

“How long have you known?”

“That you were some other man’s child?” Soven finally meets Tyri’el’s eyes, the disdain clear even in the low light. “Nearly your whole life. You were barely a year old when she confessed.”

The lynx reaches up and puts its paw on its master’s knee, grunting as it senses his distress.

“She never told you who my father was?”

“Not until today.” Soven sighs, the sound short and strained. “Had I known who had truly fathered you, things may have evolved differently.”

“You wouldn’t have treated me any kinder,” Tyri’el says quietly, but Soven hears him nonetheless.

“I have never been cruel to you, Tyri’el.”

“Perhaps not. But never kind.”

“I never showed you anything different than I did—”

“You loved Ralen more than me,” Tyri’el says, voice betraying the disbelief at the other elf’s words. “You gave him everything and left nothing for me.”

“Ralen was my son.”

“I was, too.” Tyri’el’s fists clench where they rest in his lap, nails digging into his palms to offer a small amount of distraction from the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. “All my life, all I ever wanted was for you to be as proud of me as you were of him.”

“I was pro—”

“Don’t,” Tyri’el snaps. “Don’t try to tell me you were a good father to me.”

“I was, and you know it to be true. I provided for you, and your mother.”

“The two are not one in the same.”

“What was I supposed to do, Tyri’el? I could not look at you without seeing some other man, without seeing the betrayal of the woman I loved.” Soven seems to be fighting back tears as well, and the realization gives Tyri’el pause. He’d only ever seen the other elf weep once, and that was when he learned that his son - his real son - had fallen in defense of Silvermoon. Soven meets his eyes. “You were a constant reminder of everything I had failed to keep sacred.”

“It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to be sired by someone else.”

“I know. But you…you were—”

“I was a child who needed his father.” Tyri’el fights to keep his voice soft, much as he wants to shout.

“You had your father.”

“I had someone who I wanted more than anything to—”

“I gave you everything you nee—”

“You gave me nothing and told me I had everything,” Tyri’el says, unable to keep his temper from leaking into the volume of his voice. “All I wanted was for you to love me.”

“I could not love you,” Soven says, upper lip curling in the barest hint of disgust. “I loved your mother, and because of that, I stayed. Had I known who my Keldra had…had…”

“Just say it. If you’d have known that I was the prince’s bastard, you might have given me a shred more of respect. Of common decency.”

“Watch your tongue, boy.”

“Why? What do I owe you now that I know I have no ties to you?”

“I am still your elder, and your—”

“You are a coward of the worst degree,” Tyri’el says, standing to tower over him. At Soven’s feet, the lynx snarls, rising into a low crouch with its hackles raised. “And you are nothing to me.”

Tyri’el is gone before Soven can think to respond, moving through the house without caring how much noise he makes. He finds the door in the upstairs hallway, throwing it open and barely keeping himself from slamming it shut behind him. Violet is still asleep, and he watches her for a moment before moving across the room to sit on the bed. Though he tries to be careful, the shift of the mattress wakes her, and she blinks a few times and looks up at him.

“Tyri’el? What is it?” She asks, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes, and notices the strain in his throat and the tears staining his cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” he replies, shaking his head and smoothing a lock of hair away from her face. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Violet says, stifling a yawn. “I worry a great deal for you already.”

“I dreamt about my father,” Tyri’el says finally. “And I spoke to Soven.”

“Light, come here.” Violet pulls him into her arms, and he buries his face in her neck and clings to her. She strokes his hair, holding him tight as he shakes both of them with muffled sobs.

“I’m so tired,” he says, turning his head to rest his cheek against her collarbone.

“We can sleep,” Violet murmurs, looking down at him.

“No, I’m tired of everything. Of being told how to live and who I’m supposed to be. Of being pushed to the wayside and made to obey people who profess to have my best interests at heart when they only use me for their own…” Tyri’el sighs, breath warm against her neck. “I’m tired of being…me.”

“Who would you rather be?”

“I don’t know. Anyone else, I’d imagine.”

“I rather like you as you are,” Violet says, cradling his cheek with her hand. “That’s not to say there aren’t things I wouldn’t like to see changed.”

“Such as?” Tyri’el looks up at her, both curious and reluctant to hear her answer.

“I’ve already said how much I adore your smile, and how rarely I see it,” she says, smiling down at him with gentle eyes. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

“How do you see me?”

“Mm, you’re like the sun.”

Tyri’el snorts.

“How so?”

“Warm, giving. Beautiful like nothing else in the universe.” Violet sighs, a short chuckle reverberating in her chest. “I’m rubbish at waxing poetic. But you’re…I know I shouldn’t look at you too intently because it will only serve to hurt me in the end.”

Tyri’el sits up, kissing her gently.

“You’re right,” he says, resting his forehead against hers.

“About what?”

“You are terrible at waxing poetic.”

Violet smacks his chest with the back of her hand, but she can’t stop the smile that spreads on her lips. Tyri’el returns the grin, pulling her close and kissing her forehead.

“If I’m the sun, what does that make you?”

“Sunburned.”

Tyri’el laughs at that, and they’re soon giggling like small children, curled up against each other until their laughter dies down and they’re left resting comfortably with her head leaning on his chest. A rare sense of peace exists between them, both content to sit in silence and bask in the other’s presence. They’re both still tired, and more than once, Tyri’el finds himself nodding off to the sound of Violet’s slow, steady breaths.

“Can I stay here tonight?” He asks, and Violet lifts her head to look up at him. “I don’t…I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course,” she says, nodding with that same gentle smile returning. “I wouldn’t want you to be alone, not after…everything.”

Tyri’el breathes a sigh of relief and Violet shifts her weight, pulling back the covers to make room for him beside her. He climbs under the blankets, pulling them up around both of them before pulling Violet closer with her back against his chest. He settles his cheek against the crown of her head, breathing deep to calm his racing heart.

“You’re so warm,” Violet says, threading her fingers with his where his arm is draped over her shoulder. “I could get used to this.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Tyri’el replies, eyelids already drooping. He slips into Thalassian as consciousness ebbs away, meaning to tell Violet that he loves her, but he’s asleep before he can be sure he’s actually said it out loud.

It’s well into late morning by the time Violet finds herself awake again. There’s a familiar weight resting against her, and she smiles, rolling onto her other side to curl closer into the warmth of the body next to her with eyes still closed. She floats back and forth along the edge of sleep, listening to the steady breaths and calm heartbeat where her ear rests on his chest, and takes a deep, half-yawned breath to smell the comforting scent she’s grown so used to. Something itches in the back of her mind, telling her this smell is different, that it’s not leather and metal and weapon oil, but rather saltwater and parchment and some kind of flower she can’t place.

“Not yet, blackbird,” she murmurs, pulling him closer when she feels him shift like he’s sitting up. “Stay a while longer.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Violet replies, resting blissfully for a few more moments until she registers the difference in the voice that had replied. She opens her eyes, finding someone else looking at her with mild curiosity, and sits up with a start.

“Are you all right?” Tyri’el asks, and Violet nods, running a hand through her mussed hair.

“Fine. It’s just…” She trails off, shaking her head as she looks down at him. “It’s been a while since I had someone to share a bed with.”

Tyri’el raises a long eyebrow in question, but Violet waves away his forming question and settles back against the mattress, curling into him as she does. He wraps his arms around her, and they lay in silence as Violet plays with the collar of his sleep shirt. From outside the door comes the sound of hurried knocking, but it’s not on the door to the room they’re in.

“Uncle T! Uncle T! Wake up already! It’s my birthday!”

“Belore’s wrath,” Tyri’el mutters, sitting up and dragging a hand down his face. “I’ll be right back.”

With a quick kiss to Violet’s cheek, Tyri’el disappears in a short burst of arcane energy, his voice coming from the other end of the hall a moment later. Violet smiles and sits up, eyes finding the spot next to her where Tyri’el had just been, and the expression turns quickly into a frown. Thoughts of dark hair and eyes the color of a summer sky flood her mind, and she shakes her head to clear them as she swallows the bubble of grief that rises in the back of her throat. Hurried knocking helps the last of them fade away, and she looks up in time to see the door open and a head peek around it.

“Guess what today is, Violet? Guess!”

“Mm, I’m going to say…it’s your birthday?”

“It’s my birthday!” Senna comes charging into the room, jumping onto the bed to climb up next to Violet. “Want to help me open my present from Uncle T?”

“Of course,” Violet says as enthusiastically as she can manage, catching Tyri’el’s apologetic smile as he enters the room. Senna tears into the brightly-wrapped package in her hands, revealing a thick leather-bound book with intricate gilding inlaid into the cover.

“Oh, a book of fairy stories! And the pictures move and everything! Where did you find this, Uncle T?”

“I made it,” Tyri’el says, coming to sit next to her on the bed. “Just for you.”

“Violet, look!” Senna flips through the pages, landing on one that shows a colored ink drawing of four figures moving down a yellow-paved road, their outlines wavering as the enchantments make them appear to move. Violet smiles at her enthusiasm, nodding as she continues to flip through the pages. “I’m going to go show grandmother!”

Senna crawls over to her uncle and gives him a tight hug, scrambling off the bed and scampering out of the room.Tyri’el watches her go, shaking his head before looking back to Violet.

“That was close,” he says, running a hand through his hair as he falls back against the mattress.

“She’s certainly…enthusiastic,” Violet says, and Tyri’el chuckles.

“Her father was the same way,” he says, smile faltering for a moment. Violet crawls over to him, kissing him before getting out of bed to stretch her arms above her head with a yawn. He watches her lithe movements as her shirt rides up, noticing the same pattern of dark skin on her back that he’d seen months ago in the Undercity infirmary. “What is that?”

“What is what?” She asks, looking down to see that part of her back is exposed, and she immediately pulls at the hem of her shirt to hide it once again. “It’s just an old scar.”

“From what?” Tyri’el asks as he sits up.

“Nothing,” Violet snaps, covering her side with her arm.

“Forgive me,” he says, standing and approaching her. “I should know not to ask others about their scars.”

“Yes, you should,” Violet replies as she turns away from him, though she doesn’t shy away when he wraps his arms around her from behind.

“Uncle T! Violet!” Senna’s voice carries up the stairs. “Time for my birthday breakfast!”

“No peace,” Tyri’el says with mock frustration, kissing along Violet’s neck before taking her hand and pulling her towards the door.

“How old is she?” Violet asks as they reach the top of the stairs.

“Ten,” Tyri’el replies. “Going on three hundred.”

“Good morning, sundrop,” Keldra says as they enter the kitchen, pecking her son on the cheek. “Good morning, Violet. I trust you both slept well?”

There’s a knowing twinkle in her eyes as she watches the two of them go red in the face, but she only smiles and goes back to working on breakfast without pressing for an answer. Soven says nothing, sipping his tea from where he sits at the kitchen table, and Tyri’el sits stiffly opposite him with Violet at his side.

“Where’s Uncle Bel?” Senna asks without looking up from her new book. “He said he’d be here.”

“He will be,” Keldra says, exchanging a short glance with her son. “He wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world.”

Violet takes Tyri’el’s hand under the table, squeezing it reassuringly.

“There we are,” Keldra says, setting down a large tray overflowing with fruit pastries. “I can’t say they’ll be as good as your aunt’s recipe, but I did my very best.”

They eat breakfast, Senna providing a never-ending stream of upbeat chatter, and she opens the rest of her presents once she’s done eating. Afterward, Keldra clears the table and Soven leaves without saying anything, shortly followed by Senna who races out of the room to go try on the mountain of new clothes gifted to her by her grandmother.

“Your uncle did not come back last night,” Keldra says to her son when he takes a plate from her to dry it with a towel.

“I doubted he would,” Tyri’el replies, and Keldra sighs.

“I imagine he is quite cross with you after what you told Lor’themar.”

“I don’t really care how he feels about it, mother.”

“He can be a bit thick-skulled at times, but he really does care for you, sundrop.”

“He has a strange way of showing it.”

There’s a knock on the front door and Keldra sets down the plate she’s washing to answer it. A short exchange of words follows before a small arcane elemental glides into the room, this one bright orange where most are purple or blue. Tyri’el turns, raising an eyebrow at it.

“Forgive the interruption, Magister, but I need to speak with you in person.” The voice carries clearly from the elemental, sounding more like the voice of an older male human than the normally rasping sounds produced by such creatures. “At your earliest convenience.”

“As you wish, Archmage,” Tyri’el says, nodding and wiping his hands on the towel. The elemental glides out of the room, and Tyri’el sighs. “This can’t be good.”

“What was that?” Violet asks, speaking in low tones as she looks towards the front hall.

“Archmage Khadgar’s servant. I can only imagine that he’s heard something in relation to yesterday’s…incident.”

“Light,” Violet breathes, and they share a short kiss while Keldra’s back is turned.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Tyri’el says, nodding to his mother before leaving the house. Khadgar’s servant is a few paces ahead of him but it pays him no mind, and he moves through the Scryer’s tier and takes the lift down into the center ring of the city. The temple in the middle is unusually busy for this time of day, and though the naaru’s song is peaceful and light, Tyri’el can’t help but feel like there’s a nervous undercurrent to the melody.

“Ah, there you are,” a human with grayed hair says as Tyri’el enters the main hall of the temple. With a few short waves of his hand, he summons a portal, gesturing for Tyri’el to enter it. On the other side is a small, cluttered study, and once both of them have crossed into it, the man speaks again. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“I expected as much, Archmage,” Tyri’el says, and the human waves his hand dismissively.

“Please, call me Khadgar. You’re many times my senior, even if I look quite the opposite.” Khadgar sifts through a stack of papers on his desk, finally finding one piece in particular. “This came from your Regent Lord near an hour ago.”

He hands the letter to Tyri’el, who lifts the familiar crimson red seal and removes the message, scanning it quickly. He curses under his breath in Thalassian.

“You can say that again,” Khadgar says, and Tyri’el looks up at him. “I certainly did, and more than once.”

“Lor’themar told me yesterday that nothing out of the ordinary had been reported on Quel’Danas. How did the entirety of the reminder of Kael’thas’s forces infiltrate the island without any of the sentries taking notice?”

“The Burning Legion has many tricks we’ve yet to fully understand, I’m afraid.” Khadgar digs around on his desk for a quill and starts scribbling on a sheet of parchment. “Voren’thal and Ishanah will be here soon, and I will send word to High King Wrynn and Warchief Thrall of this new development. Where the Legion is concerned, I’m afraid we’ll need the assistance of both factions if we’re going to avoid disaster.”

“What do you need me for, if I may ask?”

Khadgar’s quill pauses, and he looks up at Tyri’el with eyes much older than his already aged appearance.

“We’re dealing with Prince Kael’thas, in whatever form he now takes, Tyri’el. It stands to reason that his only son may be our best weapon in the coming conflict.”

“Who told you?” It’s the only response Tyri’el can think of, and the slight frown that overcomes Khadgar is not lost on him.

“Your uncle. He was here and gone to deliver Lor’themar’s message.”

“Where is he now?”

“Back in Silvermoon, I expect. He is the acting leader of your remaining army, is he not?”

“In title, but never in spirit,” Tyri’el replies, though he can’t quell the rising unease in his gut at the thought of his uncle taking up the mantle worn by his ancestors.

“Times change, much as we might struggle against the current,” Khadgar says, coming around his desk. “I am sorry, for what it’s worth. Even the strongest of hearts can be swayed by evil.”

Tyri’el nods, and a moment of silent understanding passes between them.

“You’d best ready yourself. The Legion waits for no one.”


	38. First Assault

Within three day’s time, a small strike force amasses within the city. The call had gone out for competent fighters, just as Khadgar had promised, and both the Horde and Alliance had been eager to aid the newly-formed Shattered Sun’s efforts. It’s well understood the threat posed by the Legion, with races on both sides having once been personally victimized by the Dark Titan. As such, an entire squad of fully-armed Sentinels arrived in Shattrath from Darnassus, along with a group of vindicators from the Exodar and a regiment of orcish warriors from Orgrimmar. Combined with volunteers from both the Scryers and the Aldor, as well as the adventurers that had signed up for promises of gold and glory, a force of nearly a hundred strong sails towards the northern shore of Quel’Danas, ferried there by a single kaldorei ship blessed by the High Priestess herself.

“We will be within range of sight inside of five minutes,” the blood elf captain, Theris, announces to the forces gathered on deck. “Our scouts inform us of a large presence of Dawnblade congregated within Sun’s Reach and Dawnstar Village. It goes without saying that this is a dangerous undertaking, so be always on your guard, and look out for your the safety of your fellow fighters.”

The pale-haired elf surveys the crowd, nodding to himself in apparent satisfaction.

“I will assign your roles based on ability, and I expect you to follow them with the utmost conviction.” Another nod, and a short pause. “Druids and rogues, up front.”

Violet glances sideways at Tyri’el, squeezing his hand before moving through the crowd to stand at the very front. Two tauren, a troll, and a night elf come froward as druids, and an orc, two blood elves, and Violet come forward as rogues. Theris again nods to himself as he looks them over.

“Pair up and be ready to submerge. You’ll swim your way to the shore and make use of your stealth capabilities to eliminate as many fringe forces as you can without bringing attention to yourself.”

“Two minutes to sight, sir,” a scout calls down from the crow’s nest.

“Spellcasters, come forward,” Theris calls, and the druids and rogues move to the side of the deck to make room. “Mages, we’ll need barriers brought up on the bow of the ship to shield from arrow fire. The rest of you will take out other spellcasters that will pose a threat to hull integrity. Hunters, you’re in charge of keeping the skies clear when the Dawnblade aerial units make their appearance. Healers, keep everyone on their feet, and melee fighters, clear their heaviest units first.”

“One minute, sir.”

“Once we make landfall, our first priority is seizing enough ground to set up a temporary base of operations. Once we’ve accomplished that, we’ll push south to take over Dawnstar Village.” Theris looks over the assembled forces. “No fear, soldiers. We fight for the future of Azeroth today, for everything and everyone we hold dear.”

“For Azeroth!” Comes the cries from the group, echoed with weapons drawn and raised.

“For Azeroth!” Theris repeats, his own sword held high in the air to reflect the midday sun. “In position! We retake Quel’Danas this day!”

The group scatters, all assuming their new duties. Tyri’el takes a place near the bow of the ship, coming to stand beside Hathir as he raises his arms to begin casting a shimmering barrier of icy mana that stretches ten feet in each direction. He exchanges a glance with Violet and they nod to each other, Violet then moving to pair up with one of the druids. The night elf seems surprised when she introduces herself in proper Darnassian fashion, bowing at the waist with her palm over her heart.

 _“I am Ravorn of House Swiftsorrow,”_ he replies, mirroring her bow. _“I am unaccustomed to hearing my native tongue spoken by a human. You speak it well.”_

 _“My shan’do would be proud to hear such praise,”_ Violet replies with a sad smile.

“Entering sight range,” the scout yells, and within a matter of moments, the beach now visible in the distance begins to swarm with red-clad elves. Theris turns to the newly-formed teams.

“Stealth pairs, dive from the stern. Two teams to the east, two to the west.”

Violet nods to Ravorn and they make for the rear of the ship. A draenei follows them, her hooves clattering along the deck to alert them to her presence.

“Take these before you dive,” she says, handing a small object to each of the four rogues. “We do not need any one drowning today.”

She leaves, and Violet examines what she was given, finding a small carving of a fish, embedded with three real fish scales that hum with latent energy.

“Clever,” one of the tauren druids remarks as his partner shows him the idol. “These will allow you to breathe underwater for the duration of the swim.”

Violet stows the idol down the front of her bodice, nodding to Ravorn and moving with him to the edge of the deck. He dives without hesitation, surfacing a moment later as a large, purplish-gray seal. Violet takes a deep breath, looking over her shoulder to see Tyri’el already in the midst of casting a spell, and dives from the ship. Growing up along the Gilnean coast, she’s been a strong swimmer since a very young age, but it takes her a moment to orient herself in the churning waters before surfacing. Ravorn is right beside her, offering her a flipper as she clears the water from her face.

_“Are you ready, young one?”_

_“I am,”_ she replies, an he bares his now-sharp teeth in what she assumes to be a grin.

 _“Hold tight,”_ Ravorn warns. _“We will be moving very fast.”_

Violet grabs what serve as his shoulders, taking an instinctive deep breath as he dives beneath the waves. They descend quickly into the crystalline waters, and Violet slips into stealth despite knowing they’re now deep enough that they are well out of sight to anyone moving overhead. Ahead of them in the distance, the hull of the ship cuts through the water towards the shore, an occasional chunk of ice splashing into the water as it’s chipped away from Hathir’s barrier. Having never experienced a water breathing spell before, Violet holds her breath until she thinks she might pass out. Ravorn notices her grip on him tightening, and his voice carries through the water to her.

 _“Breathe, young one,”_ he says, startling her as she fights against the urge to do just that. _“You will not be harmed.”_

Despite the overwhelming instinct to keep her mouth closed, Violet obeys, fully expecting herself to drown within moments. Her lungs fill with air, not water, as easily as if she’d been standing on dry land, and she lets out a short laugh of relief.

“Light be praised,” she says, voice distorted but still clear enough to be understood. A throaty laugh is Ravorn’s only response. The water begins to lighten as the sea floor angles up towards the island, and they move through a forest of kelp as they approach the shore. Ravorn dives to the sandy floor, only twenty feet underwater at this point, and comes to a stop.

 _“You will need to swim on your own from here,”_  he says, turning around to speak to her despite not being able to see her. _“I will meet you on the shore.”_

“Tor ilisar'thera'nal!” Violet replies, earning another toothy grin from the druid. In a blur of magic, the seal before her morphs into a nightsaber, golden eyes stark against its dark pelt. Ravorn disappears, only a faint outline visible as Violet swims towards the surface. Waves crest and crash against the shore as she rises from the dark waters, the wind chilling her wet form despite the heat rushing in her blood at the promise of battle. A hundred yards to her right, she spots a nearly-invisible tusked lion emerge form the waves, followed shortly by one of the blood elves, also stealthed. Violet catches the rogue’s attention, signaling with her hands that she and her partner will move to the south and that he and his partner should stick to the shore.

 _“I follow your lead,”_ Ravorn says, the tip of his tail brushing her leg to alert her to his presence.

 _“We move southward,”_ Violet says, drawing her swords.

To the east, the Star’s Berth sails towards the island, now only a few hundred yards from the shore. The Dawnblade elves congregate in the sand and shallows in anticipation of the ship’s landing, arranging themselves with a row of archers that fire endlessly towards the ship. Hathir’s barrier is barely intact by now, nearly destroyed in some places and littered all over with arrows, but it still provides enough cover for Tyri’el and several other casters to hurl spells at the enemy forces. A handful of sailors haul the anchor over the side and it digs deep into the sea floor, slowing the ship to a halt. The few shamans aboard call on their magic, allowing the melee fighters that swarm off the ship to glide across the remaining stretch of sea as if they were charging across solid ground. Aeonessa leads the charge, her hammer glowing with holy fire as she and a group of paladins crash into the archers, completely destroying the mana barriers protecting them with only a few swings of their weapons.

 _"Let us move,”_ Violet whispers, getting a short nod from Ravorn as they move away from the shore.The trees are sparse here, offering little in the way of cover, and the pair move quickly past the majority of the Dawnblade now swarming towards the beach. Violet takes stock of the enemy’s numbers once they’ve moved around to the back edge of the fight, looking for the best place to begin thinning their ranks. There are stragglers in several places, but she deems them to be too risky to kill without someone taking notice. Based on her training and experience, if elves go down with their throats cut when none of the invading forces are anywhere near them, someone is bound to get suspicious and implement measure to break stealth, something that is both counterproductive and dangerous to those utilizing that skill.

Finally, after a long moment of observation, Violet spots a lone orcish warrior surrounded by a half dozen Dawnblade on one side of the skirmish, and she motions for Ravorn to follow her. They slink closer, easily picking off two elves each with Violet slitting their throats from behind and Ravorn gouging at the backs of their necks to sever their spinal cords. The orc finishes off the remaining two on her own, muttering a short thanks to thin air before charging back into battle. Violet and Ravorn continue to cut down Dawnblade forces around the edges of the fight, aided by the other three pairs of stealthed fighters, and together with the combined melee forces and the spellcasters that come ashore after them, the beach is soon empty of enemy forces, marked instead by their corpses and soaked with their blood.

“Fall in,” Theris calls, and the fighters move towards him where he stands near the shore. “Healers, set up a triage and start treating the wounded. I want a head count and list of injuries as soon as possible. The rest of you, set up a perimeter and be on the lookout for scouts. We can expect retaliation presently.”

Violet finds Tyri’el slogging up to the shore, having spent the majority of the battle waist-deep in the surf as he flung spells into the fray. She materializes beside him, immediately grabbing his arm to examine the gash there. He startles, eyes sparking with energy before he realizes it’s her and relaxes.

“It’s nothing,” he says, looking her over to that that while she’s covered in blood, barely any of it is her own. “Grazed by an arrow.”

“It’s deeper than grazed,” Violet says, scanning the shore for Aeonessa, who is currently kneeling over a troll with a sizable hole in his gut.

“I think I’ll live,” Tyri’el replies, and Violet scoffs but doesn’t fuss further.

“Sunfury,” Theris calls, approaching the two of them.

“Sir.”

“You know the island better than most of us. We have a map but we could use a more experienced eye in planning our next move.”

“Whatever you need, Captain,” Tyri’el says, and Theris nods, moving back towards a group of his men. Tyri’el sighs, looking out across the beach. To the east there’s a harbor, filled now with sin’dorei wavecutters, and beyond that rise a series of cliffs, upon which sits a large, fortress-like span of white stone walls. Magister’s Terrace, once a place of learning and camaraderie for quel’dorei mages, is now no doubt crawling with felbloods and demons loyal to whatever his father has become. He looks away, thankful that Violet agreed to come with him on this mission with an admittedly questionable outcome.

Once a perimeter has been established and the wounded stabilized, those in charge gather to discuss their strategy going forward. A makeshift war table is set up and a map of the island produced, and with Tyri’el’s input, they plan for their next move.

“He makes for a good leader, don’t you think?” Hathir says, sitting in the sand next to Violet where she watches Tyri’el discuss tactics from across the beach.

“Better than most,” she admits, taking the waterskin he offers her. “Shame he doesn’t think that highly of himself.”

“Never has,” Hathir says with a short sigh. “One of the brightest mages Quel’Thalas ever produced, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at the way he holds himself.”

“Mind if I join you?”

Violet looks up, seeing the priest that had cared for Tyri’el when he’d been brought back from the Aldor tier. He pauses a polite distance from them, inclining his head to one side.

“Oh, no, not at all.” Hathir says, voice wavering as he nods. His cheeks darken as he suddenly finds his rations very interesting, and Violet raises an eyebrow at him. “Ah, Violet, this is Rhen. He’s a very nice…he’s a very good…he’s a priest.”

“We’ve met before,” Violet says, nodding to him in greeting. “Good to see you again.”

“You as well,” Rhen says, sitting next to Hathir, who seems to be holding his breath. “I’m glad to see Tyri’el has continued to fare well after his injury.”

“Injury?” Hathir asks, looking over at him but unable to keep eye contact for more than a moment. “What happened to him?”

“We were attacked by naga,” Violet says. “He was in a bad way before we got to Shattrath. Rhen looked after him while he recovered.”

“Seems you’re making a habit of it.”

Violet looks at Hathir in question, but he says nothing, so she looks to Rhen. He swallows his mouthful of food before speaking.

“I treated Tyri’el when he was injured during the…” He pauses, face darkening.

“When he was nabbed by the gargoyle,” Violet supplies, and Rhen nods. Hathir looks over at her.

“He told you about that?”

“I saw the scars,” she replies, and his eyes widen, a grin creeping onto his face.

“Good for him,” Hathir says, eyes finding Tyri’el again. “I knew he had it in him.”

“Light, you’re a child,” Violet says, rolling her eyes. “He spilled something on his shirt, that’s all.”

“Is that what you humans call it these days?” Hathir replies, and Violet shoves him hard enough he topples backwards into the sand. Rhen extends a hand to him, but he waves it off and sits up. “I’m, uh, I’m all right. Thank you, though.”

“As you like,” Rhen says, nodding and returning to his meal with a hint of a frown touching his lips.

Over at the war table, the group disperses with Theris delegating new responsibilities to his men. Tyri’el catches Violet’s attention and she excuses herself, ignoring Hathir’s pleading look as she walks across the beach.

“What did you decide on?” She asks, walking with him where the waves meet the sand.

“We’ll push towards the village within the hour,” Tyri’el replies, running a hand down his face. He wants to reach out and take her hand, to pull her into a desperate hug to calm his nerves, but with so many eyes around them, his hand falls back to rest at his side. “Once we have a more permanent foothold on the island, we’ll send for reinforcements.”

He lets out a long breath, eyes again finding the cliffs and the buildings atop them. Violet follows his line of vision.

“It’s difficult to be here, isn’t it?”

“More so than I thought it would be.” He pauses to look out over the sea, gaze moving to the spires only just visible over the tops of the trees to the southeast. “The last time I was here, I helped my father destroy the Sunwell.”

Tyri’el shakes his head, turning away from the view of the Terrace to face the forces on the beach.

“The island used to sing with its energies. You could feel it in the ground, and almost taste it in the air.” He scuffs at the sand with the toe of his boot. “I spent many summers here, bathed in its essence. And now…the whole of the place feels hollow. It gave my people life and I…”

“You told me it was poisoning your people, whatever Arthas did to it,” Violet says, stepping in front of him to catch his eyes without touching him.

“It was, but…we could have found a way to cleanse it, I’m sure of it. Instead, we doomed ourselves to starvation and madness. Whatever hope for a cure we once had…it died with Illidan in the Black Temple.”

“You did what you thought best,” Violet says, wishing she could kiss away the despair that starts a sick hurt in her chest whenever she sees it, but knowing the trouble such a display would cause at the moment.

“I did what I was told,” Tyri’el replies, jaw clenching and eyes going hard. “As I always do.”

Behind them, Theris calls for everyone to assemble, and Violet touches Tyri’el’s arm for just a moment as a silent reassurance before they move away from the water to join the others.

“We move southward into Dawnstar Village,” the Captain says, handing out small copies of the map of the island to a few people who then share it throughout the rest of the group. “Our target is the Sun’s Reach Sanctum. It is the most defensible of the available structures, and will provide necessary cover for the coming night. Fall into formation and prepare to move out.”

The group moves with purpose, the plate wearers making up the outside of the formation and the healers kept sheltered in the center, with the other classes filling up the spaces in between. The druids change into their various forms, Ravorn once again choosing to morph into a cat and making his way over to Violet.

 _“We make for a good team,”_ he offers when Violet looks at him in question.

 _“That we do,”_ she agrees. Theris finds them, motioning for the two of them to follow. They move away from the others, and when he speaks, it’s in a low voice.

“We need eyes and ears in the shadows,” he says, handing Violet one of the small copies of the map. “Our initial reports from the Farstriders put Kael’thas’s forces at approximately seven hundred, but I want a more accurate count. Scout as much of the village as you can before nightfall, and report back with numbers and positions.”

“Aye, sir,” Violet says, and Ravorn nods in agreement.

“Belore guide you,” Theris says, saluting with his fist over his heart before returning to the group.

 _“Elune guides me,”_ Ravorn grumbles, earning a short chuckle from Violet.

“Give me just a moment,” she says, slipping into stealth before sprinting back towards the group. She finds Tyri’el towards the front handing out mana water to the spellcasters, and moves beside him to press her lips to his cheek.

“Be careful,” she whispers right next to his ear, and though he’s startled at first, he nods.

“Come back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tor ilisar'thera'nal", according to the wiki, is a Darnassian warcry that means, "Let our enemies beware".


	39. Reverie

Taking the Sun’s Reach Sanctum proves a great deal more difficult than the skirmish on the beach. The Dawnblade have the advantage of archers in the upper reaches of the building, as well as holding the only door as an easy choke point. Once it becomes clear that the Shattered Sun’s forces will soon breach the door through sheer muscle alone, courtesy of the orcish warriors and the handful of druids utilizing their bear forms, the Dawnblade retreat to the upper level of the Sanctum via the teleportation orb. Unfortunately for them, rogues are excellent at scaling walls, and anyone who escapes to the upper level finds themselves quickly outnumbered and just as quickly dispatched. Whatever remaining Dawnblade forces remain in the area draw back into the other buildings across the village for the time being.

Once the Sanctum is deemed completely cleared of enemies, the amassed forces begin to convert the building for their usage. Marksmen take up positions on the upper floor to watch for retaliation, and invisible arcane wards are set up around the perimeter to deter any forces on the ground. Tyri’el, Hathir, and two Alliance mages go about making the preparations for a permanently-anchored portal. Their resources are limited at this stage of the incursion, and though their combined power is great, the resulting portal only functions one way. Regardless, it’s a serious asset, and only a few minutes after the magical doorway is completed and anchored to a small outcropping on the second floor, reinforcements start to arrive from Shattrath.

Beleron is the first soul through, arriving dressed in what Tyri’el recognizes instantly as his war regalia. The ornate robes and mantle have not seen battle in many years, and the sight alone is enough to conjure up images of endless reaches of frozen wastes that culminate in a towering glacier that reaches up into the snow-choked sky. Tyri’el shivers, shaking his head to clear the bitter memories. More archers and mages emerge from the portal, and then a squadron of Blood Knights who move into the lower level to assist with healing the wounded.

Violet returns near sunset, Ravorn trailing in behind her. He’s bleeding from a gash along his back flank, and he shifts out of his cat form as soon as they reach the cover of the Sanctum. A draenei rushes over and begins to heal him while Violet helps him ease down to the floor.

 _“That blade was meant for me,”_ she says in Darnassian, her voice a mix of scolding and gratitude.

 _“I will recover,”_ he assures her, waving off her worrying gaze through gritted teeth. _“Bring our findings to the Captain. They are more important than a few drops of spilled blood.”_

Violet hesitates, finally rising to her feet to cast a quick glance around the darkening space for Theris.

“Captain,” she calls, gaining his attention. He gestures for her to follow him to one side of the large room where the war table has been relocated against the wall.

“What are your findings?” He asks, and Violet pulls the map from her bodice and unfolds it.

“Your earlier estimate of seven hundred was generous, at least for the forces within the village proper. Our counts were closer to three hundred, spread fairly evenly between the harbor, the armory, and several smaller buildings to the south.” Violet points to places on the map as she speaks, gloved finger finally coming to rest on a large square on the northeast corner of the island. “I got to wondering how your intel could have gotten the numbers so wrong, so we left the village and moved northward, towards this complex here.”

“Magister’s Terrace,” Theris supplies, and Violet nods.

“There’s probably fifty or so within the walls based on my count, but it was hard to get an accurate number without having access to the buildings.”

“That still leaves another three hundred and fifty unaccounted for,” the Captain says, frowning. “I highly doubt the agents sent out by the Regent Lord would have made such a large error in their calculations.”

“My guess, sir, is that the remainder have congregated here, in the Sunwell Plateau.” She points to the large series of buildings shown at the center of the island. “You’ll forgive me for not getting too close to it, sir. I could smell the demons from outside the walls.”

“No, you have done very well. This information will give us an advantage that was previously unavailable. I thank you, on behalf of the Shattered Sun, and Silvermoon.”

“I am more than happy to help, sir,” Violet replies, eyes darting around the room before she peaks again in a lower voice. “There’s another matter you should be aware of, sir. While I was scouting Magister’s Terrace, I saw…”

She takes a deep breath, wetting her lips before leaning in closer to whisper.

“Prince Kael’thas resides within, sir, and he’s…to be perfectly honest, I don’t have words for what the Legion has done to him.” She sighs. “I can say with all confidence that he has most certainly not stayed dead.”

Theris seems to chew on her words, nodding to himself after a long pause.

“It was suspected,” he admits, “but it is disheartening nonetheless. Have you told anyone else of this?”

“No, sir. I thought it best that you should be the first and only to know.”

“That is appreciated,” he says with a sigh. He takes the map from her, shaking his head before looking at her. “Rest now. You have done well.”

“As you wish, sir,” Violet says, bowing at the waist. She leaves him, scanning the room and making his way over to Rhen where he’s kneeling over a wounded orc. “Have you seen Tyri’el?”

“Oh, Violet,” Rhen replies, looking up at her with a start. His hands are covered in blood, and he brushes his hair from his face with his shoulder. “No, I can’t say that I have. You might ask Hathir.”

She nods and leaves him to his work, seeking out Hathir in the midst of a group of Blood Knights, hurriedly conjuring basins of fresh water for them to use to clean wounds. He looks up as she approaches, wiping the sweat from his brow as he pauses his summoning gestures.

“Tyri’el is upstairs,” he says, anticipating her question. “And his uncle is here.”

Violet can’t help but sigh at that, muttering a short thanks as she moves through the building towards the ramp that leads up to the teleportation orb. The sensation of traveling with the orb is jarring, sharing absolutely nothing in common with the otherwise smooth transitions she’s come to expect when it’s Tyri’el transporting her with one of his spells. She finds him helping to construct a magical barrier around the new portal, waiting a polite distance away from him to finish his incantation in peace. Once the barrier is fully in place, he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, grunting softly before moving away from it. His steps falter when he sets eyes on her, his face lighting up as he closes the distance between them in a few strides. They embrace in a tight hug, and Tyri’el breathes a sigh of relief.

“I was worried,” he says, finding that she smells very strongly of arcane discharge. “I thought you’d only gone to scout the village.”

“It took longer than I expected,” she admits, pulling back to look at him. “But I promised you I’d come back, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he says, giving her a tired smile. They move away from the portal, finding a small alcove where they sit and share rations, leaning heavily on each other as the day’s work slowly catches up to them. The air grows cool as the sun finally sinks beneath the horizon, and Violet huddles closer to Tyri’el in an attempt to soak up as much of his ever-present heat as she can manage. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close, less affected by the encroaching cold than she is, and presses a soft kiss to her temple. They sit in comfortable silence until a rather stoic-looking draenei comes around the curve of the building, a heavy crossbow resting on his shoulder.

“You should move inside,” he says, barely glancing at them. “It is not safe to be in the open air with the threat of aerial strikes.”

Tyri’el lets out a long sigh, his sentiment echoed by Violet, and they rise from their hiding place and move inside the upper level of the Sanctum. There are a few small rooms that once served as personal quarters for the Sanctum’s keepers, now abandoned, but they still house some basic furniture. Everything is covered in a fine layer of dust, but to their tired bodies, a bed is a bed and it is welcoming nonetheless. Violet sits on it, beginning to unfasten her leather armor as Tyri’el moves to the small circular window on the far wall and traces his finger along the edges, leaving a glowing trail of energy wherever he touches. Once the circle is complete, an arcane rune flashes briefly in the open space of the window before fading out of sight.

“I should speak with my uncle before I retire for the night,” Tyri’el says, turning to face her. Violet nods, slipping off her bracers.

“Hurry back,” she says with a wry smile. “I might freeze to death in your absence.”

Tyri’el snorts, moving over to the bed to take her lips in a deep kiss. The intensity leaves her dazed and she blinks a few times to find him smirking back at her.

“We wouldn’t want that,” he says, leaving before she can think to reply. The lower level of the Sanctum is winding down for the night as well, with the first watch already on duty while the second watch catches a few hours of sleep in preparation for their shift. Beleron is standing with Theris at the war table, deep in a seemingly heated discussion as Tyri’el approaches. He clears his throat, gaining the attention of the older elves.

“I will be turning in for the night, by your leave,” he says, adding the last part as an afterthought in his uncle’s direction.

“You did much today,” Theris says, nodding. “Rest well.”

“I would speak with you first,” Beleron says just as Tyri’el begins to turn to leave.

“Very well,” he replies, following his uncle outside. The trunk of a large tree provides adequate cover for them from any would-be assassins for the time being, and Beleron takes a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking. He looks tired, the circles under his eyes deep and pronounced as if he’s hardly slept in quite some time.

“Theris informed me that he has received intelligence in regards to Kael’s whereabouts.”

Tyri’el swallows hard, nodding for him to continue.

“He’s holed himself up inside Magister’s Terrace with a small contingent of his forces,” Beleron says, scorn evident in his tone.

“What do you plan to do about it?”

“Nothing, as of tonight. Until we have a more secure foothold on the island, we can’t afford to send any of our forces inside to…” Beleron trails off, seeming to rephrase his train of thought. “To negotiate with him.”

“You still think him capable of rational action?” Tyri’el asks, remembering the face under the cowl in the Blood Knight headquarters. “We don’t know what the Legion has done to him.”

“I am not sure what to think,” Beleron says, shoulders sagging for only a moment before his posture turns rigid. “Until we have evidence to the contrary, we will assume Kael can be reasoned with.”

“If you think it best,” Tyri’el says, no longer able to muster the strength to argue, no matter how much he believes his father to be beyond reasoning. He startles when his uncle’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“I wish you had not refused Lor’themar. I have every confidence that you can be—”

“Good night, uncle,” Tyri’el says, shrugging out of his grip. He returns to the Sanctum, deftly moving through the crowded space and back up the ramp to the teleportation orb and slams his fist onto it with more force than necessary. What he needs now is the peace only Violet can bring, to forget himself for even just a little while. He opens the door to the room they’d chosen, expecting to find her waiting for him, but instead, he finds that she’s not alone. Hathir and Aeonessa, as well as Rhen, are arranging their bedrolls on the floor of the small room, while Violet watches helplessly from where she’s already settled under the tattered blankets of the bed. She looks at him apologetically, and he shakes his head, the motion more tired than aggravated.

“Just like old times, Sparkles,” Hathir says, smirking up a his friend as he shuts the door. “Except this time you’re the one with a girl in your bed.”

Aeonessa shoves her brother with her shoulder, barely concealing a scowl in the general direction of the bed. Rhen looks up at Tyri’el, clearly uncomfortable with his own sleeping arrangements.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “We thought it best to stay close to one another.”

“I don’t mind,” Tyri’el says, though he can’t completely stifle his sigh. “Not enough to bother shooing you out, anyway.”

“I’ll do it,” Violet mumbles under her breath, almost pouting as she watches Tyri’el move past the bedrolls of the others to sit on the bed. He pulls off his boots and slides them under the bed, laying back against the mattress. It creaks as he shifts to cover himself with the blankets, the bed frame groaning under the stress of their combined weight. Violet scoots closer to him, shivering in the damp cold of the room. On the floor, Aeonessa blows out the single candle lighting the room, and the group settles into relative silence. The bed is barely better than the floor, and Tyri’el shifts a few times in an attempt to get comfortable, making the decrepit bed frame creak once again.

“I can cast a privacy charm for you two,” Hathir says, followed quickly by a yelp as his sister kicks him.

“Go to sleep, Hathir,” Violet says, her voice almost a growl. She curls her fingers into Tyri’el’s shirt, resting her head on his chest to let his heartbeat lull her to sleep.

 _“Sleep well, my love,”_ Tyri’el whispers in Darnassian, voice low enough that only Violet can hear him. She responds with a contented hum, already drifting off in the warmth and security of his arms around her. Over the course of the next few hours, he memorizes the cracks in the stone of the ceiling, unable to convince himself that it’s safe to sleep. He knows that he will need his strength for the morning when they move to take more of the village from the Dawnblade, but being back on Quel’Danas had him uneasy and he can’t shake the feeling that something will soon go very wrong. His father was one of the most powerful mages on Azeroth, and now that the Legion has fully consumed him, there’s no telling just how much danger they’re in now.

His thoughts wander to Magister’s Terrace, to the decades worth of summers he’d spent there as a mage in training, and a dull ache starts in his chest. He’d been so young, so foolish in thinking that the power of the Sunwell would always flow through him. Much of the quel’dorei nobility was prone to hubris, thinking themselves untouchable by the outside world. Quel’Thalas was a bastion in a world filled with the treachery of lesser races, a land where summer never ended and the High Elves towered above all others from behind their magical gate, Ban’dinoriel. For a time, he’d bought into that mindset, until he’d ventured to Dalaran to learn from the humans. The world was so much bigger, so much more than just the forests of Eversong Woods, but still, he took the safety of his homeland for granted.

Then Arthas came, cutting across the land with the Scourge at his heels. Ban’dinoriel fell at the hands of one of their own, and one by one, villages and cities fell to the never-ending tide of undead. They had been woefully unprepared, and they had paid for their arrogance in spilled blood and the lives of innocents. Their king had fallen, the font of their lifeblood was poisoned by necromantic energies, and as a race, they had been nearly eradicated. Kael’thas returned from Dalaran to a broken band of survivors, climbing from the wreckage of their once glorious city, slowly wasting away. More fell to the madness of mana deprivation, dwindling their numbers to a pitiful few thousand from what had once been ten times that number. They were without hope, without a future, when Illidan came and promised a cure.

That cure never came. The Betrayer taught them to cope with their hunger, to steal life from other beings to sustain themselves, and in their desperation, they had done it. When their prince told them he would save them, the newly-forged sin’dorei had believed him. But what choice did they truly have? To vanish as a race, to die out with screams marring their last breaths, or to live on stolen time in the hopes that a new future was just over the horizon. Barely a choice at all.

It was easy to believe in the future Kael’thas promised, and because of his devotion to that cause, it was easy for the Legion to whisper in the prince’s ear. Tyri’el had watched him slowly go mad under Kil’jaeden’s careful machinations, unable to stop the man he nearly worshiped from succumbing to the Deceiver’s influence. Nothing would jeopardize the future Kael’thas so desperately sought, even though, as time went on, that future became what Kil’jaeden commanded, not what was needed by the few of his people who had survived thus far.

So his people left him. Those not gripped by zealotry had made the long march to Shattrath under the leadership of the aging Seer, Voren’thal. He’d been given a vision of their people, free of their addiction and the suffering they’d endured the years past, and many were more than willing to believe in that, rather than the maddened ramblings of their prince. Tyri’el had believed the Seer.

Now, he holds no such disillusions. He’s seen what his father has become, even before his death and fel-twisted resurrection, and he’s seen his people continue to barely survive in a world that, on some days, seems not to care whether they live or die as a whole. The Horde has been more than welcoming to the sin’dorei, but Tyri’el has come to see it for what it is - a desperate alliance made by a desperate people.

Before they joined the Horde, the blood elves could barely feed their dwindling numbers, having lost most of the fertile farming land in the southern territories to the plague. They could not defend themselves from the Amani trolls, nor from the remaining Scourge that still polluted their once-pristine land. It was only through supplies and troops sent by Thrall and Sylvanas that they had managed to rebuild what they could of Silvermoon and reinforce their borders against the constant attacks. The choice had not been easy. Many still remembered the devastation of the Second War brought by the Horde, but that had not been Thrall’s Horde, and with the utter betrayal their forces had suffered at the hands of the Alliance, the deal had been struck.

It’s choices like these, ones that are so intricately tied up with the well-being of his race, that terrify Tyri’el, even now that he’s refused the mantle of King. They’re why he refused it in the first place. He knows that, while he was raised in the upper reaches of Quel’Thalas’s nobility, he can’t possibly be made to gamble with what few of his people remain. His blood may sing with the power of the Sunstrider dynasty, but he is no leader. He is not his father.

Violet sighs in her sleep, drawing Tyri’el from his reverie to find that his cheeks are wet and his jaw aches from being clenched tight like a vice. He looks down at her, watching a stray bit of moonlight dance across her cheeks, and wonders if she ever dreams of him. He’s often dreamt of her, both while asleep and while fully awake, and while he’s never been one to imagine too far from the present, he can’t help but make idle daydreams of what their future might hold. They could find a place to hide from the world, to simply exist in each other’s presence without needing to worry about the cares of others. Nagrand might be nice, with its rolling hills and never-ending sky, or perhaps somewhere warm and tropical like Stranglethorn. He doesn’t have much more than the modest living made by a scribe, but he will, without a doubt, do anything he needs to give Violet whatever she desires. She’s already given him so much, and he can only hope that he’ll be able to pay back even the barest fraction of her gifts.

A manic stream of unbidden thoughts hits him hard like a punch to the gut.

Will they ever make it off this island? Will whatever madness his father is planning with the darkened naaru and the desiccated Sunwell take their lives before they’ve even had a chance to forge their future together? Will he lose Violet, or lose himself and leave her alone like so many others have?

_Absolutely not._

Tyri’el feels the depth of his conviction down in the farthest reaches of his being, stirring like an animal waking from centuries of hibernation. Whatever lurks inside Magister’s Terrace is no longer his father. Whatever it is, whatever the Legion has created within the skin of the fallen prince, it has no claim to this world any longer. His father is dead, and the memory of everything he sacrificed to save his people will not be tainted by the Deceiver any longer.

By his hand alone, Kael’thas Sunstrider, the last prince of Quel’Thalas, will be freed from his curse.


	40. Magister's Terrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, me pretending I know anything at all about arcane theory.

Peering out over the edge of the Sanctum’s upper level, Tyri’el squints through the moonlit night, trying to remember where he’d placed the invisible wards around the building. There’s quite a few of them littering the grass, and while he could very easily shield himself from the arcane explosion that a misstep would trigger, he couldn’t mask the sound it would make. He needs to leave the building unseen and unheard if he has any chance of making it through the village without anyone trying to stop him, and when he decides it best to just avoid the wards altogether, he murmurs a short incantation to cloak himself in invisibility and teleports to the ground. He appears well past the grass, now standing on the stone-paved avenue that winds through the village, and takes a moment to orientate himself before sprinting away from the Sanctum. Anyone with enough arcane affinity will be able to see through his spell as easily as he imagines Violet can see through the stealth of another rogue, and such mages are in no short supply amongst the Dawnblade, so he sticks to the shadows and makes use of any cover already in place.

He stops along a low stone wall, crouching behind it for a moment to catch his breath and survey the area. There’s not a soul in sight, and the village is eerily empty despite the time of night. It strikes him as odd that there’s no patrol out and about, but the Dawnblade could very well have forgone their nightly rounds with the threat of the Shattered Sun looming so close. Still, he thinks there should be at least a few guards keeping an eye on things.

A hand comes over Tyri’el’s mouth and he feels the cool touch of a blade against his throat.

 _“Come along quietly,”_ a male voice whispers in Thalassian, lips close enough to his ear that they brush against it with each syllable. Tyri’el nods gently to signal his cooperation, and he finds himself dragged to his feet. He should have known they would have rogues slinking about. Something warm sprays against the back of his neck and he’s jerked roughly backwards, the hand leaving his mouth and the blade clattering to the ground.

“Honestly,” Violet hisses, pulling him down to the ground behind the wall. “Have you no instinct for self-preservation?”

Tyri’el rubs at his throat to find the skin there unbroken, and watches Violet heave the lifeless body of the Dawnblade assassin under the cover of a nearby bush. She glares back at him as she buries the abandoned dagger in a shallowly-dug hole.

“Well?” She pulls down the scarf covering the lower half of her face. “You should know better.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” he replies, and Violet scoffs, lifting his chin to check his neck for herself.

“Clearly,” she says, eyes softening when she sees he’s uninjured. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You would have insisted on coming with me.”

“Fat lot of good that did you,” she says, peeking over the wall. “The damned bed made enough noise when you got up that the whole building probably heard you.”

“I need to go without you, Violet,” Tyri’el says, gently catching her chin to make her look at him. “This is my business alone.”

“Like hell it is,” she says, sharp edge returning to her voice. “I trust your skills completely, but even you are no match for fifty felboods and…whatever your father has become.”

“You know about my father?”

“Who do you think told Theris?”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I knew you would rush up there headlong and get yourself killed,” Violet says, taking his cheeks in her gloved hands. “You don’t have to face him alone.”

“Yes, I do,” Tyri’el replies, wishing beyond hope that she was right. “He’s my responsib—”

Violet puts her fingers to his lips, listening for a moment before she nearly growls and peers over the wall. Tyri’el sits up and cautiously follows her line of sight, eyes picking out movement across the square. It’s a group of three, barely shrouded by an invisibility spell, sprinting from shadow to shadow in their general direction.

“Light above,” Violet sighs, lifting her head above the wall and waving them over as she whispers to him. “I told you that bed would wake the whole damn place.”

“Where are we headed?” Hathir asks, crouching down in front of them. Aeonessa follows suit, her plate mail clinking as she does, and Rhen takes cover next to Violet with his back to the wall.

“ _We_ are not headed anywhere,” Tyri’el says through a set jaw, looking to Violet for support, but she only shrugs with a look that tells him she has no sympathy for his shortsighted escape plan. “You are all going back to the Sanctum so I can—”

“Not happening,” Aeonessa says, and he notices that she’s traded her hammer for a sturdy shield and sword. “Where you go, we go. End of story.”

Tyri’el sighs, dragging his hands down his face in exasperation.

“Magister’s Terrace,” he says finally. “I…we have to release Kael’thas from the Legion’s puppetry.”

“That…sounds dangerously close to treason,” Hathir says, dark brows furrowed. “He’s still our prince.”

“Not anymore,” Tyri’el says, lifting his eyes to the northeast. “Whatever is left of my father is…not himself any longer.”

“Father?” Rhen asks, head inclined to one side. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“You mean Soven is—”

“Soven isn’t my father,” Tyri’el snaps, cutting off Hathir’s question. The three other elves are mute with shock and confusion, and Tyri’el glances at Violet, who nods and takes his hand as reassurance. “When Kael...before he died, he told me that…that I’m his son.”

“And you believed him?” Aeonessa asks, voice spiking with disbelief. “You, who know full well how mad he was driven—”

“My mother confirmed it, Nessa,” Tyri’el replies, gritting his teeth against tears. “It’s true.”

“That makes you…”

“That makes him bloody tired of this whole mess,” Violet says, her voice low and rough in a way that makes the whole group take notice. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, opening them to look at Tyri’el after a moment. “I’m behind you on this.”

“As am I,” Rhen says, nodding solemnly at him.

“I trust your judgment,” Hathir says, putting his hand on Tyri’el’s shoulder. The group looks to Aeonessa, who seems to be wrestling with her thoughts. She looks up at Tyri’el, a small sigh escaping her.

“If you really think there’s no other way.”

“I wish there was,” Tyri’el admits, shoulders sagging as he slumps back against the wall. “My uncle thinks Kael can be saved, but…what he really needs is to be set free. I believe he would beg for death if there was anything left of his former self.”

“He’ll be heavily guarded,” Aeonessa says, fingers against her lips as she thinks. “It won’t be easy.”

“They’ll see us coming,” Rhen says, checking his belt packs for potions and bandages.

“Not necessarily.” Hathir looks between the assembled group. “We’ll move in three groups. Tyri’el, you take Rhen and I’ll take Nessa, and we’ll move under invisibility charms while Violet does what she does best.”

“That’s…actually a brilliant idea,” Aeonessa says, and Hathir snorts.

“Just because I was hungover doesn’t mean I never payed attention class.”

“There should be a small alcove just outside the main gate,” Tyri’el says, rising from his crouch. “We’ll regroup there.”

The group exchanges nods and Violet pulls up her scarf.

“I’ll clear the way in case there’s any patrols.”

“Be careful,” Tyri’el warns, moving the cloth to press a quick kiss to her lips before putting it back in place. “They’ll kill you if they catch you.”

Her eyes crinkle in a way that tells him she’s grinning.

“They won’t catch me.”

With that, she’s gone, and the remaining four break off into two groups.

“Stay to the left of the path, and we’ll stay to the right,” Aeonessa says, and Tyri’el nods. He moves close to Rhen and waves his hands to cast the invisibility charm over them, followed shortly by Hathir and Aeonessa. They move though the village towards the north, wary of the possibility of more hidden rogues, but they pass a number of hastily hidden bodies that tell them Violet has been there and cleared the way for them.

Dawnstar Village tapers away, the paved avenue eventually giving way to a simple dirt path that leads north along the coast and rises with the incline of the cliffs. Magister’s Terrace sits high above the crashing surf, its white walls stark against the dark, star-filled sky. It takes Tyri’el and Rhen close to an hour to make it all the way to the front gate, and when they set eyes on Aeonessa and Hathir catching up a few minutes later, the pairs of guards that had been flanking either side of the gate lay lifeless with their bodies tucked out of sight from overhead patrols. The alcove is exactly where he remembered it to be, and he motions to the others to follow him. It provides good cover from almost every angle, and Tyri’el lets his charm drop, shortly followed by Hathir doing the same.

“Violet?” Tyri’el whispers, wishing she’d give some indication of her location.

“Here,” he voice says from very near to them, and she materializes and staggers into him. He catches her by the shoulders, one hand coming away slicked with blood. She sees his distress and shakes her head. “Bugger got me under the pauldron.”

“Let me see,” Rhen says, stepping closer. His hands glow with golden light as Violet reaches up to unfasten her leather shoulder piece, gritting her teeth as she does.

“Just stop the bleeding,” she says as the familiar soothing tingle of the Light sinks into her skin. “We don’t have time for a full heal. I overheard a guard griping about his replacement being late to relieve him.”

“Will she be all right?” Tyri’el asks, and Violet waves off his concern before Rhen can answer.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, pushing the priest’s hands away and refastening her armor. “If you’ll recall, I’ve had much worse.”

“That does nothing to reassure me,” Tyri’el replies, and Violet nearly rolls her eyes.

“I don’t see a point in trying to sneak any farther,” Aeonessa says, undoing the leather strap keeping her shield fastened across her back. “There’s bound to be anti-stealth wards inside the grounds.”

“We’ll have to move quickly regardless,” Tyri’el says, running over the map of the complex in his head. “Once they’re alerted to our presence, we’ll be dealing with everyone they’ve got.”

“Belore keep us,” Rhen says, a sentiment echoed by the other elves. Violet keeps her prayers silent, asking the Light to shield them from harm.

“Ready?” Aeonessa asks, drawing her sword.

“We follow you,” Tyri’el replies with a nod, and the rest of the group fall into formation. Tyri’el and Hathir flank Aeonessa on either side, while Rhen stands behind her with Violet closing the rear of the group. They charge through the rectangular entryway, emerging into a small courtyard. Only a few elves are present here, mostly spellcasters by the way they’re dressed, and they seem to be doing nothing more than enjoying the crisp night air. At the feet of one of the casters stands an imp, chewing idly on some kind of rock, and its felfire eyes go wide when it sees them. It tugs on the robe of its master and shrieks.

“Master! Baddies here!” It cries, voice high in a way that might be comical in any other situation. The warlock whirls around, a ball of dark energy already coalescing in his hands. Before he can complete his spell, a bolt of purplish energy hits him square in the chest and he topples over backwards. The imp crumples easily to Violet’s blade, and the rest of the elves assembled in the courtyard are quickly subdued with ice and steel provided by Hathir and Aeonessa. The few nicks and scrapes incurred during the scuffle are quickly healed by Rhen, and with barely a moment spent to catch their breaths, the group pushes farther into the Terrace.

On the other side of another rectangular hallway is a darkened chamber, the walls outside the doorway reflecting the bright green glow of fel energy. Violet slinks through the shadows cast by the braziers inside, aiming to quickly gain a head count. She nearly gasps, barely managing to keep herself quiet at what she sees inside. Three small groups of Wretched surround large floating crystals that pulse with fel magics, all feeding greedily from them like hyenas devouring carrion. They seem less emaciated than the once-elves she saw in the ruins of Silvermoon, but their twisted bodies and deep-sunken eyes are haunting nonetheless. In the middle of the room, the floor breaks and rises to a higher level, and atop this new tier stands a felblood elf with deep red skin and twin horns jutting from his forehead. He, too, feeds from a crystal, a frenzied hunger in his felfire eyes. Violet tears her own eyes away and moves back to the group where they wait around the corner.

“Mostly Wretched,” she whispers. “They don’t seem to have noticed the commotion outside.”

“How many?” Aeonessa asks, wiping the sweat from her brow.

“A dozen, give or take,” Violet replies. “There’s a felblood in there, as well. They’re all feeding from crystals.”

“Be wary of them,” Tyri’el says. “They’re likely unstable and could do a lot of damage if mishandled.”

“Noted,” Aeonessa says, taking a deep breath before looking back to the group. They all nod and she returns the gesture curtly before charging into the room.

The Wretched swarm almost immediately, their trance broken by the intruders. The felblood takes notice but doesn’t seem wholly concerned with the new arrivals, and as Violet looks to him to see if he’s going to join the fight, she begins to wonder how much he really sees through eyes that seem glazed over behind the glow of fel. The Wretched fall easily, their frail bodies no match for the weapons and magic turned on them. Tyri’el wonders who they might have been before the Sunwell was destroyed, but he has little time to linger on the thought as he turns his attention to the felblood on the raised level above them.

This elf, he knows. Selin Fireheart, once a captain of Kael’thas’s personal guard. He’d been very young when he’d achieved the rank, and only a few hundred years old when Silvermoon had fallen. It seems his loyalty to his prince had led him to consume the blood of demons, and his addiction to the fel is clear in the way he’s siphoning from the crystals hovering around him.

“You’re too late,” he says, turning slowly to face them. “The Master will return.”

Aeonessa wastes no time as he begins to cast a spell, forming a hammer of pure light that she throws at him to disrupt his casting. He roars in anger, leaping from his perch to swing at them with claw-like nails.

“You only waste my time!” He yells, nails raking against the blood-spattered metal of Aeonessa’s chestplate. She keeps his attention as the rest of the group works to wear him down, throwing spells and lashing out with razor-sharp blades until he’s bleeding heavily and wheezing with blood bubbling from his lips. “I…hunger…”

He reaches out with frightening speed and latches onto Aeonessa, pulling her arm to him and driving his pointed teeth into the space between the end of her bracer and her elbow. She screams in pain, the sound changing quickly to anger, and her knees buckle as the felblood elf begins to drain her through the new wound. Hathir surges forward as ice coalesces in his palm to form a series of razored spikes that fly from his grip and puncture straight through Selin’s skull. The felblood elf’s body spasms and he falls still, the dead weight overwhelming Aeonessa to the point where she topples over with his corpse covering her. Hathir hauls the body off of in a show of frenzied strength and tosses it as far away as he can manage before crouching over his sister.

“Nessa,” he says, taking her head in his hands. “Look at me, please. Say something.”

“Mmm,” Aeonessa manages, opening her eyes. Their glow is dulled and she seems to have trouble focusing them. “I don’t…”

“Stay still,” Rhen says, holding her down with a gentle hand on her shoulder when she tries to sit up.

“What did that son of a bitch do to my sister?” Hathir growls, eyeing the cooling corpse as if he wishes to inflict further damage to it.

“Try this,” Rhen says, offering a small vial of blue liquid to the paladin. She chokes it down, blinking hard as she stares at the ceiling. A bit of color returns to her cheeks and her eyes brighten as she manages to sit up with the priest’s help. Rhen nods to himself. “I thought so. It seems he was hungry enough to drain her mana directly rather than resort to a spell.”

Rhen rummages around in his pack for another potion that Aeonessa readily downs, tossing the empty bottle with a grunt so it shatters beside Selin’s corpse.

“Good?” Hathir asks, and she nods.

“You used to bite me harder than that, little brother,” she chides, loosening her bracer to give Rhen better access.

“I didn’t realize the hunger could manifest so strongly,” Violet says quietly from where she’s watching them a few feet away. Tyri’el’s only reply is a pained look as he rips the cork from a small mana potion of his own and drinks it.

“We should keep moving,” Aeonessa says, accepting her brother’s offered hand to let him pull her to her feet. She picks up her sword and shield, pushing a sweat-soaked lock of raven hair away from her face. There’s a small doorway covered with gauzy blue curtains off to one side of the room, and after Rhen assures Hathir that his sister is all right for the third or fourth time, they move as a group in that direction. Hathir stops beside Selin’s corpse and kicks it hard, muttering something about not fooling with the Goldenshards before leaving the room with the others.

“Do you feel that?” Tyri’el asks him as they travel down a long, narrow hallway. Hathir nods, expression growing stern.

“Even I can feel it,” Violet says, shivering at the arcane charge in the air that nips at her skin like tiny static shocks. “What is it?”

“A massive amount of arcane energy,” Tyri’el says, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as they draw closer to the end of the hallway. “Massive, and unstable.”

“Wait here,” Violet cautions, slipping into the shadows to get a better idea of what they’re approaching. The hallway opens out into another empty corridor, and she moves to the archway at the end. A bright light shines from inside the room beyond, and she has to shield her eyes from it for the few short moments she can bear to look at it. She moves back to the group where they wait at the end of the first hallway. “It’s an arcane elemental. Big one.”

“How big?” Tyri’el asks, eyes darting to the doorway.

“Thirty feet tall big.”

Tyri’el pushes out a breath through slack lips, his mind already racing to come up with a plan.

“I can backtrack and see if there’s a way around it,” Violet offers when she sees him struggling. He shakes his head.

“We can’t just leave something like that to its own devices. Especially not once this place is cleared.” He looks up at her. “Where are its keepers?”

“I didn’t see anyone else in the room. It was that thing and a flock…school…” Violet searches for the right word. “A group of…flying snakes.”

Hathir and Tyri’el exchange a look, both coming to the same conclusion.

“How many mana wyrms are we talking?” Hathir asks, and Violet shakes her head.

“I don’t know. Two, maybe three dozen?”

“More than enough,” Tyri’el says, mostly to himself, then looks to Rhen. “We’ll need a channeled barrier around the doorway. Can you do that?”

“I can,” Rhen says, nodding hesitantly. “What are you planning?”

“Just channel the barrier. Hathir and I will take care of the rest.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Aeonessa asks, skepticism clear in her voice.

“Just stand there and look annoyed,” Hathir says, unaffected by his sister’s resulting glare.

“All right,” Tyri’el says, addressing the three non-mages. “Once Hathir and I are through that doorway, Rhen, you’ll throw up your barrier and channel it until I tell you it’s safe to stop. Understand?”

“Barely,” Rhen admits. “But I’ll do as you ask.”

“Good. Now you two,” Tyri’el continues, looking to Aeonessa and Violet, “do not, under any circumstances, step outside of that barrier.”

“You’re certain this will work?” Violet asks, looking between them. “Whatever you’re planning?”

“Chances are fifty-fifty.” Hathir shrugs. “Maybe thirty-seventy.”

“That better than you two degenerates usually manage,” Aeonessa says with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m not scraping you off the ceiling if this goes sideways, little brother.”

“Won’t be enough of us left to require cleaning up if this goes sideways,” Hathir replies with a mischievous grin.

“Remember,” Tyri’el says, “don’t leave the barrier, and don’t come in after us.”

“Can’t we just wait around the corner?” The priest still doesn’t look fully convinced by their confidence.

“We need you in our line of sight if we’re going to get out of the way in time.”

“Out of the way of what?”

Tyri’el’s only reply is a wide grin, making him the very picture of a scheming mage. He looks to Hathir.

“Ready?”

“Always,” Hathir replies, his own grin still wide on his lips. “Let’s do this.”

The mages sprint down the hallway with the rest of the group close behind, and with one last silent confirmation with Rhen, Tyri’el and Hathir charge into the room. In the next second, Rhen’s eyes spark with Light and a golden dome forms around them, a small part of it squeezing to extend though the doorway to act like a a cork plugging a hole. He stands rigid in the center of the dome, arms raised on either side as a continual string of prayers falls from his lips.

“Get behind me,” Aeonessa says to Violet as she raises her shield. Violet obeys, tucking herself against the paladin and making herself as small as possible.

In the room beyond, Tyri’el and Hathir move quickly and quietly until they’re a third of the way down the long, rectangular space. A group of mana wyrms nests up in the rafters, sleeping quietly in small groups that resemble schools of shimmering minnows. Hathir summons a small chunk of ice and throws it at the nearest group, hitting one of the wyrms on the flat of its scaled side. It lets out a small shriek and flails around in the air, drawing the attention of the rest of the group, and their resulting cries of surprise wake the others until the full clutch is descending on Hathir like a swarm of angry bees.

“On my mark,” Tyri’el says, eyes moving from the approaching swarm to the massive elemental at the far end of the room. It’s watching them, the two bright pinpoints of light that serve as its eyes fixed intently on the mass migration of the mana wyrms that had been attracted to the hall by its energies. It stays where it is, and Tyri’el returns his attention to the wave of chittering wyrms. Both he and Hathir widen their stances and raise their hands into the air with palms out. Once the swarm is only a few yards in front of them, Tyri’el shouts. “Now!”

The mages tap into the latent mana swirling inside the wyrms’ bodies and draw it out in steady streams that move like intelligent lightning towards their waiting grasps. The wyrms wail and writhe, realizing too late that their life forces are being siphoned away, and they soon disappear completely, save for small, egg-like spheres that drop from the cores of their bodies and rain down on the plush carpeting like tiny hailstones. The elemental senses the manipulation of energies and begins to drift in their direction, raising its claw-like hands in an attempt to steal some of the siphoned energy for itself. Tyri’el heaves his portion of mana with both hands, pulling it like he’s dragging something incredibly heavy with a length of rope, and Hathir does much the same. The streams of mana coil around them in a serpentine manner, held together only by the force exerted by their expert manipulation. Displaying behavior not unlike Selin in his blind hunger, the elemental moves faster now, gliding across the length of the hallway.

“Drain…life!” It says, voice airy and rasping.

“Any time, Sparkles,” Hathir says through his teeth as he clenches his jaw under the strain of holding the mana aloft.

“Almost,” Tyri’el replies, equally strained by the force required. The elemental barrels through the collection of orbs that remain from the wyrms, sending them scattering like a handful of dropped marbles.

“Come and get it, you shiny bastard,” Hathir says, his feet beginning to slip backwards on the carpet as the two bodies of mana begin to interact with each other.

“Now!” Tyri’el shouts over the roaring of energies. They drop their hands and unleash the contained mana, linking arms before teleporting themselves backwards into the safety of Rhen’s barrier. Like two lightning storms clashing together in the sky, the mana left by the mages collides violently with the elemental. For a moment, it looks as if the two will simply merge, but the unconstrained cloud of energy ripples at the last second and drives deep into the body of the elemental and rends it apart from the inside. The resulting shockwave obliterates everything in the room and surges towards the end of the hallway. Both Tyri’el and Hathir raise barriers to bolster the Light-borne shield, and the group braces for the impact. Rhen raises his voice with the force required to withstand the blow, yelling not from pain but from determination, his prayers all but forgotten as he calls more and more Light to protect them from the explosion. Aeonessa does what she can to supplement him, focusing a stream of her own Light into him so he can draw from it as well as his own.

The explosion washes over them like a tidal wave, the overwhelming surge of mana almost dizzying even to Violet. It only lasts a few seconds, dying out until there’s only stray fizzles of electricity in the air. The space falls quiet and Rhen collapses, only kept from hitting the ground hard by Aeonessa as she drops her sword and reaches out to catch him. Tyri’el and Hathir stagger sideways as they drop their own barriers, leaning heavily on each other as they sink to the floor with relieved laughs that devolve into a fit of juvenile giggling.

“Belore’s wrath,” Hathir says, choking on a laugh as he struggles to calm himself. “That would have done Belo’vir proud.”

“He would’ve strung us up by our ears,” Tyri’el replies, chest heaving. He looks over at Rhen, seeing the priest’s eyelids flutter as Aeonessa continues to channel Light into him.

“Did we…did we win?” He asks, voice soft and strained as Aeonessa helps him to sit up.

“Win? We’re alive, thanks to you!” Hathir exclaims, crawling over to crush Rhen to him in a tight hug, jerking back a moment later with eyes wide and cheeks darkening. “You, ah, you…you did good.”

“Thank you,” Rhen says, his own face coloring all the way to the tips of his ears. “I’m glad you…survived.”

Violet shoots a bemused look at Tyri’el, who can only shrug and shake his head with a knowing grin. Even Aeonessa can’t help but break into a small smile as her brother fidgets uncomfortably.

“Can you stand?” She asks Rhen, and he tests his legs.

“I just need a moment,” he says, wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his robe.

“I don’t think we have a moment,” Violet says, already hearing the shouts of alarm coming from the far end of the hallway.

“Up you go,” Aeonessa says, hauling Rhen to his feet. Hathir reaches out to steady him, and the priest leans hard on him.

“Took more from me than I expected,” he mumbles, and Hathir shushes him with a gentle hand on his chest.

“What do we do now?” Violet asks, drawing her shortswords. “It sounds like the whole place is headed our way.”

“We’ll hold them off until Rhen has a chance to regain his strength,” Tyri’el says, and Violet nods, bracing for the incoming attack.

 


	41. Sacrifices

“Better?” Hathir asks, taking the empty potion bottle from Rhen, who nods as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

“The room has stopped spinning,” the priest says, earning a nervous smile from him. Rhen looks up at Tyri’el as he and Violet emerge into the small hallway from the room beyond, both spattered with blood from the small Dawnblade force sent to investigate the arcane disturbance. “I’m sorry for holding us back.”

“No need,” Tyri’el replies with a short shake of his head. “We would all be in much worse shape without your efforts.”

Rhen sighs and begins to push himself up from the floor. Aeonessa moves to help him but Hathir offers his hand and pulls him to his feet, steadying him as he sways.

“I’m ready,” Rhen says, nodding to Tyri’el. He’s still pale, and he blinks as if he’s having trouble focusing his eyes, but Tyri’el takes him on his word and looks to the others.

“Be on your guard. If they didn’t know we were here before, they certainly do now.”

The group assumes their earlier formation, with Aeonessa at the front and Violet closing the rear, and they move through the small hallway into the room that had housed the arcane elemental only a short time ago. The walls are covered in a thin layer of shimmering soot, and the carpet and wall hangings that had adorned the space are little more than dust after the explosion. The scent of arcane magic is thick in the air as they move through, and the only reprieve from the thick, smoke-like cloud is the soft nighttime breeze filtering in from the archway at the far end that leads to a balcony covered in lush, healthy grass. The group steps out onto it, most pausing for a moment to marvel at the sight before them.

The verdant forests around Magister’s Terrace stretch out to the south, all the way to the gleaming walls of the Sunwell Plateau itself. Two spires break the skyline, one pristine and the other badly damaged and looking like it’s in some state of repair. Even from this far away, the complex is truly magnificent, bearing the brilliant reds and golds of its sin’dorei keepers.

Tyri’el spares only a passing glance, hating the grip of guilt that coils around his stomach, and moves away from the edge of the balcony and towards the archway at the far end. The others follow shortly, their steps illuminated more by the light of the moons than by the dull glow cast by the floating lanterns that line the space. The ground beneath their feet shakes as they approach the archway, and the sound of heavy, slowly rhythmic footfalls meets their ears.

“Sentries,” Tyri’el whispers, judging the familiar cadence and the slight metallic hum coming from the space beyond. “Aim for their cores and they’ll go down quickly.”

Moving quietly but with purpose, the group advances through the arch, coming into a small hallway that slopes downward as it progresses. An arcane sentry, as big as those in Silvermoon City, if not bigger, ambles up towards them, its metal limbs cast in black and fel green rather than gold and crimson. The helmet-like piece that serves as its head swivels towards them where they stand and its pace increases as it moves closer.

“Intrusion detected,” a monotone voice says from somewhere within its body. “Initiating defense protocols.”

“The core,” Tyri’el reminds everyone, eyes already sparking with energy as he begins to cast a spell. Aeonessa charges towards the sentry, effectively holding its attention while the others move into better positions. An arcane missile from Tyri’el manages to hit the sentry’s pulsing crystalline core and jar it loose from where the energies hold it in place. The construct falters and its limbs begin to move erratically, so Aeonessa takes the opportunity to slam her shield into it as hard as she can manage, and the thing’s limbs drop to the floor at the core fully shatters. Such a commotion of clanging metal draws the attention of the other sentry, but it, too, falls to their evolving teamwork.

At the very bottom of the angled corridor is a large doorway that leads out into an expansive, open-aired courtyard, and from where Violet peers around the corner to get a better look, she can see several small clusters of elves. Some sit in small groups and carry on conversations, while others read by the glow of conjured magelights, and a small few are stretched out in the grass, sleeping. A quick headcount tells her this is where the bulk of the remaining forces are congregated, thought there are still a few unaccounted for from her earlier reconnaissance. She bristles when she notices a naga sorceress slithering through the courtyard a short distance away, and her grip on the wall tightens at the memory of the sea witch who’d ordered the attack that had nearly cost Tyri’el his life. Mentally marking the naga for a personal kill, she returns to the group.

“Small groups, but I don’t know if we can pull them separately,” she says, thinking on strategy as she speaks. “We’ll likely have to deal with them as a whole if anyone notices us.”

“I can hold some in ice, but that won’t mean much if they can cast or make ranged attacks,” Hathir says, and Tyri’el nods in agreement.

“I can only turn so many into sheep at one time, and only for so long,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Keep as many incapacitated for as long as you can.” Aeonessa speaks to her brother and Tyri’el with the command of a natural leader, then looks to Violet. “Pick off whoever you can manage around the edges. Everyone else…leave them to me.”

With a final check of everyone’s readiness, the group advances into the courtyard, drawing the attention of the nearest handful of elves. The noise of the ensuing fight draws another nearby cluster into the fray, and though they try to eliminate enemies as quickly and quietly as they can, soon the whole courtyard is advancing on them. Hathir keeps a few of the melee fighters immobilized while Tyri’el turns a select few casters into sheep, and Violet skirts around the edges and cuts the throats of anyone outside of the main skirmish. Even Rhen downs a few, but as she instructed, the majority of the enemy forces are left to Aeonessa to handle. She dispatches them with trained ease, cutting down some with her sword and using blows of concentrated Light to kill others. Once the Dawnblade populating the courtyard are dead, everyone has a moment to catch their breaths. Rhen attempts to heal any injuries sustained, but he tires quickly and with little effort, enough so that Aeonessa waves him off and takes up healing wounds herself.

“Save your energy,” she tells him when he starts to protest.

“That looks like the last of the loose forces,” Violet says, squinting through the relative darkness of the courtyard.

“We need to be certain.” Tyri’el hisses as Aeonessa places her hands on a patch of burned skin on his forearm that was grazed by a warlock’s spell. “Kael is in here somewhere and I want to know we’re not charging blindly into a trap.”

“I’ll have a look around.” Violet disappears before Tyri’el can urge her to be cautious, reappearing a few minutes later when Aeonessa has everyone patched up to her satisfaction. “No more stragglers that I can see. But at the far end there’s a group that look like they’re a package deal.”

“How many?”

“Five. Two elves, a satyr, a naga, and a…purple woman with way too many arms.”

“Shivarra,” Rhen supplies, and Tyri’el curses under his breath.

“Delrissa,” he says with a sharp bite in his voice. “I should have known she was the one who brought Kael back. She was always far too fond of him.”

“Only two of her arms have weapons,” Violet offers, but Tyri’el shakes his head.

“Two arms are more than enough with her, I’m afraid.” He sighs. “If she’s up ahead, Kael must be nearby.”

“There’s no way they didn’t hear the commotion we made,” Aeonessa says, glancing down the length of the courtyard.

“Maybe she’s waiting for us to come to her,” Hathir says. “Delrissa always struck me as one to favor games of cat and mouse.”

“We can’t sit here all night.” Violet looks to Tyri’el. “They may have sent a runner to the Plateau for all we know. The longer we wait, the more danger we’re in.”

Tyri’el lets out a short sigh through his nose.

“Let’s just get it over with,” he says, moving away from the group towards the opposite end of the courtyard. The others follow behind quickly, staying together in a tight group in case of an unforeseen ambush. A round gazebo of sorts sits at the far end of the grassy space, part of it filled with water, and on the other side of the small pool stands a group of five, all casually appraising the newcomers as if they’re long-expected guests. On one side stand two blood elves, one of them in dark leather armor and the other bare-chested with large armored blades strapped to his forearms, and on the other are a naga myrmidon and a satyr with dark crimson fur, with a small, insect-like creature at his feet. In the center of the group is a female figure who towers over the rest of them, her deep purple skin accentuated by golden and maroon armor. She has three pairs of arms, the topmost pair grasping a long blade in each hand. She has her felfire eyes trained on Tyri’el a small smile pulling her dark lips back over pointed teeth.

“So the prodigal son returns,” she croons, her voice both alluring and unnerving. “I can see by the mess you made of this place that you haven’t come to willingly join your father in his noble work.”

Tyri’el squares his shoulders as he comes to a halt at the edge of the shallow pool, holding the demon’s gaze as he speaks.

“You should have let Kael be at peace, Delrissa. He deserved better than to be dragged back from the Twisting Nether by your hands.”

“Eloquent as ever, little mageling,” the shivarra replies with a hint of a smirk. “I would wish to wear that silver tongue as a medallion, but alas, the prince has ordered his son unharmed should he come seeking his father.”

“He knew I would come here.” Tyri’el says it as a statement, not a question.

“Prince Kael’thas knew that the power of the Legion would draw you in as it did him.” Delrissa grins, running a finger over the edge of one of her blades. “However, he did not give such provisions for anyone who might accompany you.”

Delrissa trains her eyes on Violet, inclining her head to one side with her grin never faltering.

“He also promised rich reward for the head of the golden-haired human girl clouding his son’s judgment.” Her expression turns into more of a disgusted sneer. “I shall deliver you in a multitude of tiny pieces, I think.”

“You can try,” Violet spits, her swords drawn with a flick of her wrists.

“So eager to die. Very well, then.” Delrissa raises one hand and points at Violet. “Annihilate them!”

Her guardians spring into action, surging forward to begin their assault. The insect creature snaps at Aeonessa’s legs while its master swings his crystalline dagger at her, and she only manages to block his powerful swings with her shield by a fraction of a second each time. Both the leather-clad elf and the one with blades on his arms go for Violet, and she quickly gives up on trying to damage them, instead resorting to dodging their flurry of blows. The naga pursues Hathir, his powerful blows barely blocked by a thin veil of icy mana conjured in a shield around the mage. Rhen remains unassailed, presumably deemed as less of a threat than the others.

A well-aimed kick on Aeonessa’s part sends the insect creature flying into a nearby pillar, its exoskeleton crunching on impact, and it falls to the ground, unmoving. This only angers the satyr, and he swings his blade hard enough that it knocks her off her feet as it collides with her chestplate. He springs towards her, aiming for the exposed flesh of her neck, but a sudden flash of Light sends him backwards, a massive gash opening down his back where the holy energy slices into him. He howls in pain, staggering sideways and falling to his knees to bloody the water around him. Aeonessa rises to her knees and lunges with her sword, cutting clean through his neck with the tip of the blade. She aims a small thanks at Rhen where he’s clearly fighting to stay upright, and stands with her shield raised to keep him protected.

A small conjured blizzard surrounds the naga where it continues to assault Hathir’s barrier, but the razored shards of ice do little to damage its scaly hide. Realizing this, he encases the naga’s tail and torso in a swath of ice, using the few seconds of distraction to conjure a much larger shard that he sends towards the naga with as much force as he can muster. The ice holding the myrmidon in place shatters at the last second and the shard only grazes its side, but it causes enough pain to give the naga momentary pause. It’s then that a hammer of pure Light crashes into the side of its head, the crunch of its skull caving in echoing loud enough to be heard over the din of the fight.

A barrage of arcane missiles burns at the bare skin of the blood elf with blades on his arms, followed by a small burst of pressure centered around his windpipe that explodes in a flurry of arcane symbols that flicker briefly in the air before dissolving. He chokes and spits out a mouthful of blood, collapsing to his knees before crumpling the rest of the way to the floor. With her distractions halved by Tyri’el, Violet can now concentrate on the other rogue, and they trade blows, each armed with dual shortswords. With the wound on her shoulder from earlier still not full healed, Violet uses her good arm for stronger attacks and the blood elf notices how she favors it, feigning to one side before leaping in from the opposite direction to drive his blade at her thigh with the intention of laming her. Some of the blow is lessened by her armor, but it still digs into her skin underneath, and she cries out in pain before it morphs into a more savage bellow. She leaps forward and tackles him, catching him off guard and driving him to the ground. They splash in the knee-deep water, fighting for control, but Violet manages to grapple him and drive his face under the surface of the water, shifting all of her weight to hold him there until he stops thrashing.

Delrissa watches the whole of the fight with detached interest, her expression only souring once she sees that the intruders have gained the upper hand in their respective fights. She snarls as the last of her guardians falls, charging towards the others with both blades raised high for an attack.

“Lackeys be damned! I’ll finish you myself!” She shouts, swinging one blade towards Violet, who feels the rush of air against her cheek as she barely dodges the savage blow. With distinctly inhuman grace, the shivarra whirls around, eyes trained on Violet as she scrambles to retrieve her weapons from where they’ve fallen beneath the water. Both blades collide with a golden barrier as they descend on Violet, and Delrissa screams in frustration, whirling around to see Rhen with his hands still raised from calling up the shield. “Die, priest!”

She leaps at him, Aeonessa’s shield colliding with her stomach, and though all of the paladin’s strength is directed into the blow, it’s only enough to give the shivarra a moment of pause before she knocks her away and lunges at Rhen. His barely-breathed prayer isn’t enough to protect him and she lands a solid hit that slashes at his chest with a wide spray of blood. He crumples like a rag doll and Delrissa shrieks a cry of satisfaction, turning around to realize too late that she’s left herself direly exposed to the remainder of the group.

Hathir binds her arms to her sides with a swirl of expertly-directed ice and Violet drives both swords into her back, one piercing a lung and the other cutting straight through her midsection. Dropping her swords, Delrissa falls to her knees, a trail of dark blood leaking from between her lips. With shuddering breaths, she manages a harsh laugh as she looks up at Tyri’el.

“I will be reborn,” she says, voice rattling from within her injured chest. “The Master will return, and you will…all burn…”

Tyri’el hefts one of her fallen swords with both hands, eyes hard and mouth pressed into a grim line.

“Not while I still draw breath,” he says, chest heaving. “Band'or shorel'aran.”

With one sweep of the blade, he severs Delrissa’s head from her body, watching both fall lifeless to the ground as he throws the sword away from him. When he turns, he finds Aeonessa crouched over Rhen, her whole body glowing as she calls on the Light. He curses, sprinting over to kneel beside the fallen priest. His robes are soaked in blood, as is his long copper hair where it’d fallen across the wound that stretches from his ribcage on one side to his shoulder on the other, and his skin is ashen from the bloodloss.

“Can you save him?” Hathir asks, his voice a frantic octave above normal. “Nessa, tell me you can—”

“I can’t do a damned thing with you talking,” she snaps, spreading her palms wide over the wound. “Back up, all of you!”

Tyri’el and Hathir scramble away as she begins to glow brighter, and Tyri’el moves over to Violet where she’s ripping the hem of her shirt and tying a tourniquet above the wound in her leg. She grits her teeth as she yanks the knot closed, grunting with the effort.

“I’m fine,” she insists before he can ask, hard eyes softening as she watches Aeonessa pour Light into Rhen’s chest. Tears prick at her eyes and her hands curl into fists. “This is my fault.”

“He knew the risks coming in,” Tyri’el says, not meaning the statement to come out so callously. “Nessa is—”

“He was trying to protect me,” Violet says, barely resisting the urge to scream, and her throat burns with the effort of keeping herself contained. “If I had just—”

Rhen heaves as he comes back into consciousness, the wound on his chest drawing closed as Aeonessa continues to call Light into his being. He thrashes blindly against her, fingernails cutting at her cheeks, but she keeps her focus despite his attacks. Hathir crawls over to them and holds him down with no small amount of effort, cheeks wet with tears as he tries to soothe him.

“No,” Rhen cries, his own weak Light burning Hathir where he holds his arms to the ground. “I will not become a puppet of the Legion!”

“Rhen, it’s me. It’s Hathir. You’re safe.”

“You can’t fool me, demon!”

“Please, you need to lay still,” Hathir says, blinking against more tears that cloud his eyes.

“I will never…serve you!”

“Rhen.” Hathir is pleading now, his voice thick with hurt. “Please, lay still.”

“No! I will not—”

Rhen goes limp with a incantation from Hathir, his sleeping spell whispered with a quivering voice.

“Nessa,” he begins, swallowing hard. “Tell me he’ll make it.”

“I can stabilize him,” Aeonessa replies, eyes still closed and hands still glowing. “But I can’t sustain the needed flow of Light for very much longer.”

“He had…he has potions,” Hathir says, cutting off Rhen’s belt with a shard of conjured ice and pulling it towards him. He digs through the belt packs, coming up with nothing but a single healing potion. “Here, give him this.”

“I can’t,” she replies as she opens her eyes to look over at what her brother holds. “Not while he’s unconscious.”

“You have to do something!” Hathir yells, throwing the packs aside and smashing the potion against the ground.

“Take him back to Sun’s Reach,” Tyri’el says, getting to his feet and approaching them. “Hathir, help me open a portal.”

Tyri’el repeats his friend’s name when he doesn’t seem to hear him. The dark-haired elf looks up at him, eyes and cheeks splotched with red.

“I can’t…he can’t...”

“Then open the damned portal,” Aeonessa says, and Hathir nods absently to himself and allows Tyri’el to haul him to his feet. They raise their arms and open a portal, the Sun’s Reach Sanctum appearing on the other side. Aeonessa looks up at her brother once it’s fully solidified. “Help me move him.”

“You’re going with them,” Tyri’el says, looking to Violet. She looks up at him from where she’s been wrapping her leg with a bandage, eyes wide.

“Absolutely not,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “No way in hell am I going to just leave you here with—”

“I’m not asking you.” Tyri’el cuts her off, a strange coldness in his voice. His eyes are hard, and though there’s a flicker of fear in them, his conviction is clear. “This is my responsibility, and mine alone.”

“I don’t give a bloody fuc—”

“Violet.” The word cuts sharp, stunning her into silence. “Take the portal, or I will make you take it.”

“Tyri’el,” Violet says, enough shock and wounded confusion in just three syllables to make his chest clench hard enough it steals his breath for a moment. “Why are you doing this?”

“I have to.”

“Not alone, you don’t.”

“Yes, alone,” he says, approaching her. “You heard Delrissa. He wants you dead, and I can’t risk you getting hurt on my account.”

“But you’re willing to die yourself?” The tears return to Violet’s eyes, hot with anger. “You’re at peace with leaving me?”

“I…” Tyri’el stops himself. He’s known since he saw his father in the Blood Knight headquarters that he’ll be risking himself by confronting whatever is left of the former prince, but until now, his only blind spot has been Violet. It’s always been Violet, he realizes. Risking himself for a greater good is one thing, but with the way she’s looking at him now, with the fear and betrayal behind her pale eyes, he begins to question himself and his convictions.

“You can’t do this,” she says quietly, hands fisting in the front of his shirt in a desperate attempt to keep him near. “You can’t leave me when I’ve only just found you.”

“I have to stop him. If I can do nothing else as his son, I must be the one to give him true rest.”

“Please, Tyri’el. I can help you. I can—”

“I’m sorry,” Tyri’el whispers, taking her lips in a desperate kiss he knows could very well be his last.

“Don’t leave me,” Violet says, voice breaking as she clings to him, her shuddering breaths hot against his face. Behind her, Aeonessa and Hathir lift Rhen between them, moving slowly towards the portal.

“I love you, Violet,” Tyri’el murmurs, holding her close for one last brief moment before dragging her to the portal and shoving her through it. He looks to Aeonessa and Hathir, who are both wide-eyed in shock. “Go.”

“Tyri’el, you—”

“Go,” he urges them, voice ringing out in the body-littered courtyard. Aeonessa nods stiffly, stepping backwards through the portal. Tyri’el puts his hand on Hathir’s shoulder at the last moment and leans in to whisper, “Take care of Violet when I’m gone.”

The portal snaps shut, leaving Tyri’el alone in the courtyard, his own words ringing in his head.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers in the silent dark, raising his eyes to see the twin moons shining down on him. He wonders absently if it will be the last time he sees them. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he turns to the building looming before him. “Please forgive me for what I have to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Band'or shorel'aran", roughly translated, means "prepare to say farewell" in Thalassian. Because sometimes Tyri'el gets to be extra badass.


	42. Rest For The Wicked

This hallway, in reality only twenty feet long, feels like a never-ending walk towards the gallows, and each step Tyri’el forces himself to take feels weighted down like his feet are stuck in tar. His heart hammers in his chest, echoing inside his head like a faraway war drum. He can smell the aura of energy coming from the next room, but there’s something off about it, like the sensation of a normally pleasant breeze only slightly tainted by the smell of rotting flesh. It’s the stench of fel, he knows, and it only serves to make him more wary and more worried of what he’ll find inside. Stopping just outside the doorway, he musters up every ounce of courage he can manage and dutifully quiets the part of his brain screaming at him and warning of imminent danger, and pushes aside the gauzy blue curtain hung over the archway.

The room inside is in complete and utter disarray - not unlike his own personal quarters, he notes with a bitter taste in the back of his throat. It’s much like the mess that had inhabited Kael’thas’s study in Tempest Keep, and Tyri’el chooses to see it as a sign that perhaps there’s some small part of his father still intact, rather than viewing it as a symptom of an addled mind overcome by madness. There are piles of books everywhere, likely moved from Netherstorm and pilfered from the library within Magister’s Terrace, but also a collection of strange mementos that seem too personal in nature to be the result of frenzied hoarding.

Standing near the center of the room, his form now uncovered by a cloak, stands Kael’thas. He’s bent over a desk with his back to the door, shuffling hurriedly through stacks of papers and yet more books, apparently looking for something but without much purpose. Angry muttering meets Tyri’el’s ears as he approaches his father as quietly as he can manage, maneuvering around haphazard piles towards the center of the room. The prince seems to be arguing with himself, speaking tersely in muddled Thalassian before his voice takes on a deeper, more insistent tone and starts shouting in what Tyri’el recognizes as Eredun, the language of the demons loyal to the Burning Legion. Each language is accompanied by its own distinct body language, the change sometimes abrupt and jarring as the argument itself.

In one enraged motion, Kael’thas sweeps the contents of the desk onto the floor, shattering several glass jars and sending plumes of dust into the air. He’s shouting in mixed words now, the Thalassian interspersed with Eredun and bits of Nathrezim and a handful of words only spoken by Shivarra. Even though he speaks all of the languages presented, the ramblings of his father make little sense to Tyri’el as he watches, frozen in concern. He’s known his father was likely changed by whatever Delrissa did to him to bring him back after the battle in Tempest Keep, but this…his mind is further gone than he’d originally anticipated. Kael’thas rakes his nails - now more like claws - down the surface of the desk, gouging deep grooves into the polished wood, an animalistic growl of frustration rumbling in his chest, and he whirls around, blazing felfire eyes landing on Tyri’el. There’s only a minute change in his facial expression, but he straightens up from where he’d been crouching over the desk, and in the muted light of the room, Tyri’el sees what his father has become.

Once fair skin is now ashen and tinged with sick purple, and his eyes are deeply sunken in a way that makes him look more like a Wretched than an elf. His hair, once golden like the sun, is dull and listless, and his body is thin and gaunt. Perhaps the most disturbing part of his new appearance is the fel crystal jutting out from the center of his chest. It pulses faintly like the beating of a heart, and Tyri’el realizes that it must be what’s keeping his father alive, acting as a power source to pump fel energies through his veins. The sick curl in his gut grows, and his stomach turns as his father smiles at him, cracked lips curling back over teeth now ending in fine, razored points.

“I knew you would come,” Kael’thas says, his voice barely changed compared to the rest of him. “The Master told me it was only a matter of time before you would be drawn back to me.”

“Kael…”

“Don’t look so smug,” he continues, inclining his head to one side. “I know what you’re thinking, but Tempest Keep was merely a setback.”

“What did she do to you?” Tyri’el asks, still frozen in shock halfway to his father.

“Delrissa gave me new life. Mended my broken body so I could bring the Master into this world and stand by his side as it burns in the wake of the Burning Legion.” Kael’thas gestures wildly as his speaks, his arms flailing in a much grander echo of how enthusiastically he used to express himself as he spoke. “My old body, my old loyalties…they were a prison I am now freed from. A blessing granted to me by the Master.”

“This is…not a blessing,” Tyri’el says, desperately fighting the urge to run. The whole of his father’s being just looks and feels and _is_ so wrong that his body shakes with the adrenaline pumped through his veins in anticipation of fight or flight. He can do neither at the moment, instead stuck right where he’s standing, trying to make sense of what he sees, and what his father is saying.

“You cannot see it. You have not been shown, not yet.” Kael’thas gestures to the space around them. “This world, this feeble, miserable planet…it will be claimed. It will burn in the flames of the Master, and of his master, and be remade as a haven for the Burning Legion.”

The prince takes a step forward, then another, his bare feet making no sound on the stone floor despite his heavy, uneven footfalls.

“It is a cleansing fire, my son. A healing fire. The fel will purge this world of all its blights, of the souls not strong enough to serve as I do.” He reaches a long-nailed hand out towards Tyri’el. “You have always had vision. Surely you can see how this gift has made me strong, how it has given me the power needed to usher the Master into our world. Surely you—”

“At what cost, Kael? Was this second life really worth the price of becoming Kil’jaeden’s puppet? The thing you once so vehemently disparaged in Illidan?”

“Illidan was a fool!” Kael’thas shouts, outstretched hand swiping angrily at the air. “He was not granted second life. He was not chosen as the Master’s favored servant.”

“He died for his loyalties. _You_ died for your loyalties.” Tyri’el grits his teeth, telling himself he will not shed tears for this man. Not for what he’s become. “Can you not see that Kil’jaeden is using you?”

“The Master is forgiving, my son. He is generous and rewards those who serve him faithfully. He has promised me my vengeance once he walks this world.”

“Nothing he can offer is worth your soul,” Tyri’el replies, though he knows whatever is left of his father’s soul has long since been forfeit.

“Power. Enough to destroy the Scourge and raze all of Arthas’s hellish kingdom to the ground.” The prince’s voice breaks, a haunting sound so like his former self that it gives Tyri’el momentary pause. “The power to restore Quel’Thalas to its former glory.”

“That Quel’Thalas is gone, Kael.” Tyri’el swallows the hard lump in his throat. “Nothing can bring it back. Not even Sargeras.”

“It does not have to stay dead! I will bring back everyone who was lost, and build a kingdom so strong that—”

“You cannot bring them back,” Tyri’el says, voice raised. “You cannot play at godhood. Kil’jaeden is lying to you.”

“He told me you would stand against me, my son. That you would not see as I do. But I can change that.” Kael’thas moves closer, and for every step he takes, Tyri’el takes a step backwards. “Join me, my son. Together we will—”

“Never. I will _never_ bow to the Legion.” Tyri’el halts his instinctive retreat, his hands clenching into fists.

“You know in your heart it is the true path. The Master has shown me. You will stand by my side and usher in the new age. Our age.” With arms raised before him as if he intends to embrace his son, Kael’thas’s face softens from the ever-present sneer, something soft and broken in his eyes. “My son, my beautiful, radiant son. Will you not join your father and take your rightful place?”

“No,” Tyri’el says reflexively, though for the span of a heartbeat, he can’t stop himself from imagining the future offered to him. Silvermoon rebuilt. The Dead Scar healed and the Ghostlands pure and verdant once more. Quel’Thalas again filled with his people. Prosperity. Peace. He shakes his head to clear the false hope from his heart, knowing that the Legion cannot grant that kind of future, nor would he want to pay the cost of such a bargain, no matter how much he wishes for his homeland to be restored. He locks eyes with his father. “I will not join you.”

“Why not?” There’s definitely something wounded in Kael’thas’s voice now, and once again, Tyri’el questions just how much of his father is still inside this fel-tainted husk. “You are meant for great things, Tyri’el. You are meant to be a king of legend.”

“History will not remember me as the king who opened the gate to hell and ushered in the destruction of the entire world.”

“You would be remembered as the greatest king to ever live, the one who raised the broken kingdom of Quel’Thalas from the ashes like a phoenix. The power of the heavens and the Great Dark would be yours to command.”

“I don’t want that power.”

“Your life would become…you would have a life worth living. Not this…this…”

“I have the life I want, Kael. I have something worth fighting for. Anything your demonic masters could think to offer me pales in comparison.”

Whatever tender emotion Kael’thas has been feeling as he pleads is gone, replaced by a disgusted sneer and a snarl of rage.

“You speak of that human.” He spits the word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “The one who thought herself mighty enough to slay me.”

“Yes,” Tyri’el replies, the warmth in his chest at the thought of Violet cutting through the haze of anger and disbelief hanging over him like a stormcloud. “ _She_ is my future.”

“She is nothing,” Kael’thas shouts. “A false promise and a wicked heart masked beneath the guise of a beautiful face.”

The crystal jutting from his chest flares to match his rage, but Tyri’el can’t see it. His eyes are focused only on his father’s face. On the sick mockery of the man he once thought a god, the man he once aspired to be exactly like.

“She is _everything_.” Tyri’el takes a step forward, his conviction renewed in the face of his father’s anger. “She is what I fight for. I will stop your Master from destroying this world if only to make her safe.”

“You are a fool to think she will love you.”

“She does love me, Kael. And I her.”

“Now, perhaps. But she will leave. She will find another, make no mistake about it.” A flicker of hurt returns to the prince’s face, quickly smothered by growing rage. “Someone else will win her heart, someone she thinks better than you. You will beg and plead and grasp at empty air with wanting fingers, but in the end, you will be left alone.”

“I am not you,” Tyri’el says, his upper lip curling in a silent show of the anger budding in his chest. “My future is my own, and it is free. It is hers, and I give it freely knowing she will not abandon me.”

“You are above the paltry affections of a human, my son. Leave her to her childish race and join me in your rightful—”

“I will not,” Tyri’el shouts. “I did not come here to argue, and I did not come here to submit myself to you.”

“Why did you come here, my son? To berate me? You take too much after your uncle.”

“I came here to end this false life you cling to. I came to set you free.”

“I am free! More free than you claim to be, trapped in your delusions of a life shackled to a malefic little human so far beneath you. The little whore will only—”

“Enough!” Tyri’el raises his hands before him, his palms shimmering with coalescing energy and his cheeks wet with hot, angry tears. “I am done listening to you.”

“If you will not join me of your own volition, I will take away the false future you cling to so desperately.” Kael’thas reaches out with both hands, and Tyri’el fully expects to be engulfed in flames, but instead of aiming a spell at him, the prince aims a beam of energy past him and towards the back of the room. A strangled cry of surprise comes from behind a stack of books, and the pile collapses to reveal Violet, now caught in a holding spell. She thrashes against the invisible bonds, teeth bared as she tries to free herself to no avail.

“No,” Tyri’el breathes, the word almost a whimper. He sent her through the portal to keep her from this very fate, but he should have known she would not stay away at this desperate hour.

“You would wish to take my son from me,” Kael’thas says, his spell lifting Violet into the air and dragging her towards him. “You seek to undo everything I have planned for him.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Tyri’el pleads, hands falling from their casting positions as he moves towards Violet.

“Do not interfere.” Kael’thas glances at Tyri’el and he finds himself immobilized and thrown to the floor on his hands and knees, the invisible coils of the spell nearly suffocating him. Violet continues to fight against the spell, her body seizing with a sudden flare of excruciating pain. An anguished scream rips from her chest as her life force is drained into Kael’thas’s outstretched hands. “I will take every last ounce of life from you, and I will use it to make my son strong. Stronger than he could ever be while entrapped in your lies.”

Violet ebbs in and out of consciousness as her body is drained, and though she still fights against her bonds with all her failing strength, she is soon too weak to keep struggling. Her limbs hang limp as she dangles in the air, her eyes finding Tyri’el where he’s crouched over, held still by his father’s spell. This is not what she had planned when she’d recovered from tumbling through his portal and stolen a hawkstrider to race back to Magister’s Terrace. She’d intended to use the argument between the two elves as a distraction to allow herself enough him to flank the prince and end his life as she’d been ordered to, to free him from this hellish existence and give Tyri’el the peace he so desperately deserves. Now she finds the tables turned, slowly dying without the strength to tell Tyri’el that she loves him, that she’s sorry for everything she’s done and for the recklessness that will finally claim her life. She clings to consciousness for as long as she can, spending her last conscious moments asking the Light to protect Tyri’el once she’s dead.

“Violet,” Tyri’el says, fighting against the holding spell to lift his head enough to see her eyes slip closed and her head fall forward as the stream of energy begins to fade as the last of it is drawn from her limp body. She came here for him, to see him safe without any regard for her own life. It’s how she lives, right on the edge of disaster and death, and now it’s his fault that she’s going to die. For him. For his foolish belief that he might save his father. He’s going to die, too. His life is just as forfeit as hers now, and for what? To become a puppet of the Legion like his father?

“Consider this a blessing, my son.” Kael’thas drops Violet, her body slamming to the floor with a sick thud, and she remains motionless where she falls. Tyri’el is too far away to reach her, and the spell holding him is too strong. “You are now freed.”

_This is not how it is supposed to end. It cannot end here. It will not end here._

Summoning a deep reserve of power from the core of his being, Tyri’el shatters the spell as easily as a pane of glass. A wave of magical feedback hits Kael’thas and knocks him sideways, giving Tyri’el just enough time to leap to his feet and draw on this newfound resolve to throw a massive bolt of arcane energy at his father. Rage now fuels him, shuddering up his spine and surging through his body with each beat of his heart. Kael’thas recovers from the blast and casts a spell of his own, throwing a ball of fire at his son with a furious shout. They trade spells, fire and arcane filling the room in a dizzying whirl of color and heat.

The sound of shouts comes from very far away inside Violet’s head, like she’s hearing the voices from the end of a long, dark tunnel. Everything hurts, and she feels immeasurably heavy in the darkness surrounding her. Heat singes at her skin and energy stings at it like tiny electric shocks, and somewhere in her being, she knows she’s dying. A scream cuts through the inky black, one of pure, unadulterated pain, and a small inkling in the farthest reaches of her mind tells her that it’s Tyri’el’s voice she’s hearing. He’s screaming in agony. He’s dying, too.

A snarl reverberates inside her head, and she feels something deep within her stirring and waking up. It wants to be released. It wants to come out of the cage she keeps it hidden in, to hunt and attack and kill.

_I will save him. I will save you both. Release me._

Deep inside her, in that dark place she keeps so well-guarded, the cage swings open and the beast steps out. It moves through her depleted body, wearing her like an ill-fitting second skin, and brings with it a new kind of power. She releases the last vestiges of her consciousness to it, fading into the background as the feral mind takes over.

Kael’thas’s last spell has Tyri’el on his knees again, screaming as the raw power of it sears through his body like lava in his veins. He’s fought so hard, but it’s just not enough. He’s not enough. Another failure. His final failure. Vision swimming, he looks over at Violet with tears clouding his eyes. She’s no longer still, her fingers scraping against the floor as she pushes herself up onto her elbows and lifts her head. Her teeth are bared, and through the cascade of hair falling in her face, her eyes glow golden as they lock onto Kael’thas where he towers over his son.

Violet stands, her body shaking violently, and she takes a faltering step towards Kael’thas before releasing an inhuman cry and leaping at him with her arms outstretched before her. An aura of dark energy surrounds her and a swirl of mist erupts into the air, shrouding her from sight for only a fraction of a second before a beast emerges from within her. Fair skin gives way to a pale pelt, her fingers grow into long, lethal claws, and her face elongates into a snapping muzzle filled with gleaming white fangs. Her features are all distinctly canine, but still human enough to make a horrifying combination. The beast collides with Kael’thas, knocking him off his feet and breaking the spell he’s forcing on Tyri’el, who drags in a ragged breath to fill his seared lungs.

Dark, fel-tainted blood splatters across the floor as the beast’s claws shred flesh as easily as silk, and its jaws snap and foam like a wolf with water sickness. Kael’thas cries out in shock and then rage, releasing a wave of energy with enough force to knock the beast off him. It flies backwards and smashes into a bookcase, shattering the wood and sending it flying, but it lands on all fours with alien grace and launches itself at the prince again. Tyri’el watches them fight, an endless loop of slashing and biting rebuffed by small explosions and bursts of fire that singe at the thing’s pale fur. Furniture smashes beneath the creature’s hulking frame as it’s thrown around the room, but it always rises and shakes itself free of the debris, despite the many large splinters of wood embedded in its pelt, and returns to attack the prince once more. He’s bleeding heavily, but still he fights, fueled by the fel and the unyielding will that has allowed him such a long life despite his shortcomings.

One final burst of energy sends the wolf creature into the wall hard enough that the stone cracks, and it slides to the floor, unmoving. Kael’thas falls to his knees, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the already soaked rug beneath him. Tyri’el crawls over to him, every nerve in his body still on fire, and his father looks up at him with one eye closed beneath the ghastly claw wound that reaches from above one ear and across his face to under the other ear. He coughs up another mouthful of blood, his strength failing him, and Tyri’el catches him as he collapses and eases him to the ground.

“I am…cold,” he manages, his one good eye roving the space around him as if his sight is failing. “I am…alone…in the…darkness...”

“I’m here, father,” Tyri’el says, the word he’d fought so hard against slipping out in his desperation. This - his father’s death - was his ultimate goal, but he would have made it clean and painless. He would not have suffered.

“You are my—”

“Don’t speak.”

“Please, forgive…” Kael’thas trails off, his face going slack for a moment, and Tyri’el lets out a shuddering breath as his tears overflow. His father spasms and his face twists into a horrid sneer. Though his lungs are filled with blood, his rattling voice raises in a maddened cry. “My demise accomplishes nothing! The Master will have you! You will drown in your own blood!”

Kael’thas grabs the front of Tyri’el’s shirt, smearing it with blood and soot, his marred face only inches away from his son’s.

“The world shall burn!”

The prince’s grip loosens and his hand falls as his body goes limp. The crystal in his chest dims, and he lets out one last breath before he goes completely still. Tyri’el holds him as close as he can, letting himself weep openly at his father’s passing. It was too violent, so much more than even this twisted version deserved. He sits for some time, wishing he’d kept himself calm enough to say everything he’d planned to, to make final amends before ending his father’s life, until his weakened arms can no longer support the weight of the body. His clothes are soaked in blood, and it chills against his skin as he lowers his father’s torn body to the floor. With a shaking hand, he closes the one eye still open, and for the first time in a very long while, he begins to pray. Not the casual pleas uttered carelessly in moments of weakness, but true, honest prayers to Belore that go far beyond anything he’s asked since he prayed over the bodies of his brother and aunt and cousins. He begs for peace for his father’s soul, that Belore will save him and keep him, and let him rest with his forebears in halls bathed with eternal sunlight.

When he’s exhausted himself and his words run dry, Tyri’el opens his eyes and straightens up, looking around the room at the disaster wrought by the wolf creature. Violet’s clothes lay in shreds on the ground, ripped and destroyed when she transformed. The image of her altered form is fresh in his mind, and he realizes with a start that its exactly what he saw in Zangarmarsh after being struck with the naga’s poisoned blade. His fevered mind had told him it was a warped visage of Hala, as distorted as everything else around him, but he now sees that it was Violet all along, that she had transformed into…whatever she truly is, and all to save him.

Tyri’el whirls around, looking towards the spot he saw her fall, and finds it empty except for a trail of bloody paw prints leading out of the room.


	43. Licking Wounds

The coppery tang of blood is heavy in the air as Tyri’el follows the trail of paw prints out into the courtyard. There’s two distinct sets of shapes, one more like a true wolf’s paws, and one closer to that of human hands with elongated claws, making him think she’s resorted to walking on all fours. Judging by the blood splattered on either side of the tracks, she’s heavily wounded from the fight. He walks beside the trail, moving with it past the bodies of Delrissa and her entourage, and past the spray of blood where Rhen fell, to a small alcove filled with careful stacks of crystalline mana cubes brought in from Netherstorm. A soft whimpering meets his ears, and as he comes around the final stack of cubes, he finds Violet curled up in the corner as far back against the wall as she can manage.

Ears flat against her head, she bites at the splinters of wood embedded in her forearm, trying to draw them out with her teeth. A few shards as long as Tyri’el’s hand lie discarded on the ground, soon joined by another that she yanks out with a jerk of her head and spits out before returning to lick at the wound. Her pale fur is matted with blood and littered with splinters all up and down her back and legs, and her claws and muzzle are stained with dark felblood from where they’d dug into Kael’thas. Her locket still hangs from her neck, looking completely unchanged by her transformation, and she whimpers, moving on to mouth at a piece of wood embedded in her upper arm.

“Violet?” Tyri’el says, exaggerating his motions so as not to frighten her. She seems relatively self-aware, but whether that’s the awareness of an animal or a human, he can’t be certain. She startles, arms immediately coming up to shield her face from sight.

“Don’t,” she says, voice low and rough in a way that makes it barely recognizable as her own. “Don’t come any closer.”

“You’re hurt,” Tyri’el says, holding his hands before him in a placating gesture. He takes a slow step forward. “Let me help you.”

“Stay back,” she snarls in response, and he freezes instinctively, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end at the foreign timbre of her voice. “Don’t corner me, Tyri’el. I can’t…always stop myself.”

Tyri’el takes a few careful steps backwards, allowing a clear path of escape so she won’t feel cornered by his presence.

“Better?” He asks, and she lowers her arms just enough to see that he’s given her some space.

“Yes,” she replies softly, though her voice is still gruff. Lowering her arms, she watches him warily with glowing golden eyes, her muzzle still dripping with felblood. She can smell the fear radiating off of him in waves, hot and sharp like the scent of molten metal, and sees it in his eyes as he waits for her to act. “You’re frightened of me, aren’t you?”

“I…” Tyri’el begins, wetting his lips as he tries to formulate a coherent response. “I am, yes.”

This form can’t shed tears - Light knows she’s had ample opportunity to explore the absence of that capability - but Violet’s face twists in pain and she lets out a weak whine instead.

“Of course you are,” she says, looking down at the horrible claws her hands have become. “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Let me finish,” he replies, moving in slow, exaggerated steps around the pile of mana cubes while still leaving enough space between them. “I’m not frightened of you. I’m frightened because I don’t understand how you…how this is possible, and because you’re injured.”

Tyri’el approaches her and kneels beside her, reaching out with fingers he can barely keep from shaking to touch her hand.

“This doesn’t change a thing about what I feel for you.”

“It should,” Violet says, her voice more of a snarl again. “You should be screaming and running and cursing the day you ever saved my life because you saved this…this…”

She trails off, another whine escaping her, and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, they drag up to meet his.

“Look at me, Tyri’el. I’m a monster.” She shrugs his hand away, pulling her arms against her chest. “You shouldn’t be this close. I might…”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“Not of my own will, no. But she…I let her out to save you, but she…she likes to kill. To taste blood and rend flesh.”

“She?”

“The other me,” Violet says, unconsciously reaching down to hold her side. The action causes a ripple of pain up her back and she grunts, teeth bared. “The monster in my head. You can’t trust her to act as I would.”

“Are you not in control now?” Tyri’el asks, eyebrow raised. Violet shakes her head.

“Not completely. Even when I’m not in this form, she’s always there, waiting in the the dark around the edges. She makes me angry. Makes me impulsive.” Sighing, Violet grasps her necklace. “She’s the one that killed the trolls, even if she was still in her cage.”

“It was her that killed the naga, wasn’t it? It was her…you that I saw.”

Violet nods.

“I let her out because you were dying.” She looks up at him, and though her eyes are not the pair he’s grown used to, the expression held there is completely her own. “I just wanted to help. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, even before she chased away the Light. But…all I ever do is make a mess of things.”

Violet hangs her head, the motion causing the skin on her back to tug around the splinters of wood driven deep into her. She cries out, and for a moment, the feral instinct to tear at the wood with her teeth takes over and she thrashes and twists, knocking Tyri’el backwards in the process. His muscles, still tender from Kael’thas’s spells, protest against the impact as he hits the floor, and the sound of pain he makes cuts through to Violet and she instantly stops her frantic motions.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching out for him but withdrawing her clawed hand when she sees it’s covered in his father’s blood. “I…”

“I’m all right,” he replies, grunting as he sits up. “But you’ve lost a lot of blood. Those need to come out.”

He gestures with his head to the wood fragments littering her pelt.

“No, you can’t,” she says, shrinking away from him despite being almost completely pressed against the wall. “She…she’ll think you’re hurting me, and she’ll…no. Don’t touch me.”

“Violet, your wounds—”

“I said no,” she snarls, lips curling back over her teeth. “I won’t allow her to hurt you.”

“Can’t you change back?”

“Yes but…it’s not…it’s not like a druid shifting forms. I can’t always…and I’ll be…” She casts her eyes downward, and Tyri’el realizes she’s referring to the fact that her clothes were completely destroyed when she changed. Cheeks pinking despite his best efforts, he unclasps his cloak and pulls it off.

“Here,” he says, offering it to her. She takes it gingerly in her claws, and he stands, grimacing when his muscles protest yet again.

“Where are you going?” Panic creeps into Violet’s voice, and she tries to scramble to her feet to follow him.

“Stay here,” he says, halting her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’m only going to the infirmary to see what supplies I can find to treat your wounds.”

“You…you’ll come back…won’t you?” The desperation in her eyes wrenches something in his chest, and he responds with a tired smile likely not as reassuring as he intends it to be.

“Always.”

Violet watches him go, her sensitive ears keeping tabs on him even when he’s through a doorway on the other side of the courtyard and out of sight. She can hear his footsteps and the creaking of wood as he rummages through cabinets, the simple sound immeasurably reassuring. The gentle kindness he’s shown her in the last few minutes, while not uncharacteristic of him, is a stark contrast to how her other self is usually recieved. Disgust, horror, outright condemnation…these are more familiar to her. So many have called her a monster that she started to believe it long ago.

“I hate you,” she breathes, balling up her fists. A dark laugh echoes from the back of her mind, and she feels her other self slinking away, loosening the iron grip on her mind.

_I am you._

“No.” The word is growled, and Violet begins to force the beast back into its cage. “I am myself.”

Her other self never wants to leave, never wants to relinquish power, but Violet imagines herself chasing it back into the dark within her that it calls home. Sword in one hand and a blazing torch in the other, she forces the shadowy creature back into its prison, slamming the door shut and locking it tight. With the imagined clash of metal, she falls forward so she’s hunched over on her hands and knees, feeling the surge of dark power rushing from her as her lupine facade falls away. A scream rips from deep in her chest and the pain is blinding, ebbing away until she finds herself with her forehead pressed into the cool stone of the flagstone floor. Dragging in a deep breath through human lips, she pulls Tyri’el’s cloak up to cover her naked body, shivering from the chill in the night air.

“Violet?” Tyri’el comes rushing from the building across the courtyard, his glowing eyes narrowing to squint in her direction. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she manages, words dissolving into a fit of violent coughs as the taste of felbood registers on her tongue. It’s nothing like the metallic saltiness of human blood - a taste she’s all too familiar with - instead burning her mouth like she’s trying to swallow hot coals. Her stomach turns and she spits onto the ground, trying to rid her mouth of the dark substance.

“Here,” Tyri’el says, kneeling beside her with a conjured waterskin. Violet drains it dry, spitting each mouthful of tainted water off to one side in rapid succession, until there’s only a faint trace of the acrid taste left on her tongue.

“Light’s mercy, that’s foul,” she says, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, only to have it come away stained with more felblood. Her eyes widen and she touches her cheeks, finding them sticky, and her fingers trail to trace the path of dark liquid dripping from her chin to her neck and down across her barely-covered breasts. It covers her hands, almost to her elbows, as well, and a small sound of horror escapes her at the realization of what she’s done. “Your father. Light, Tyri’el, I am so sorry. I didn’t…”

“It’s over now,” he replies, the detachment in his voice surprising even to his own ears. “I came here to see that his life was ended tonight, and that was accomplished.”

“But I—”

“Don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t blame yourself. You were—”

“You shoved me through that portal for my own good. It’s my fault I came back and—”

“No, you shouldn’t have come back.” He meets her eyes, something like disapproval held there, but they soften in the next instant. “But I was a fool to think I could face him alone. You saved my life, and I’m grateful.”

“I killed your father,” Violet says, a spike of anger rising in her chest. “And all you can think to do is thank me?”

“I don’t know that I could have done it myself,” Tyri’el replies, shoulders sagging as his hands wring absently around the empty waterskin. “No matter how much I told myself I could. You heard him. He wanted to turn me into a slave of the Legion.”

“Tyri’el…”

“Don’t dwell on it. Not while you’re still injured.” He looks her over, placid expression deepening into a hard frown. “Can you walk? It will be easier to work on you in the infirmary.”

“I…can,” Violet says, grimacing as she shifts to stand. Tyri’el offers her a hand, and she takes it, using the other to keep his cloak clutched tight against her chest. Her legs are weak, the aftereffects of Kael’thas’s spell settling into her muscles as the adrenaline wears off, and Tyri’el keeps a gentle hold on her as he moves his cloak to drape it over her shoulders. They move slowly, Violet gritting her teeth as every step rewards her with searing pain up and down her back and legs. By the time they reach the building, she’s breathing hard and her cheeks are wet with tears as she stops to lean against the wall. She chuckles dryly, gaining Tyri’el’s attention.

“Something funny?”

“It’s just…” Violet hisses, taking a few shallow breaths until the pain subsides enough to allow her to speak again. “It was just thinking that we’ve been in this position before.”

“Have we?” Tyri’el takes her apparent humor as a good sign, though he can’t understand what she means.

“When we first met, and I dragged myself to the throne room with you worrying over me like a fussy old woman.” She looks over at him through the hair falling in her face and smiles, and he can’t help but think on how beautiful she is, even covered in blood with tears streaming down her face.

“Let’s not make it into a habit, hm?” He replies, smiling in return. She laughs, the motion cut short by the resulting pain.

“No promises.” Violet pushes off from the wall and heads towards the doorway. They move together into the building, passing through a small antechamber before emerging into a small room with beds lined up against the wall. The sconces on the wall are lit, casting a warm glow around the empty room, and Violet thinks it almost looks cozy as Tyri’el helps her settle onto one of the beds. Thankfully, most of the wood is embedded in her lower legs, so she can sit on the mattress without too much discomfort. Tyri’el moves a small table over to the bedside and piles bandages and other pilfered healing supplies onto it, looking at her sideways as he speaks.

“I’m afraid you’ll find me a poor medic,” he says, unrolling a leather bundle filled with metal surgical tools.

“I trust you,” she replies, and he blinks, looking over at her in surprise. She raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” Tyri’el shakes his head, digging through the supplies. “Take this. You’ll need it, I’m afraid.”

Violet takes the wooden spoon from him, her sluggish brain taking a moment to catch up to his meaning.

“I have a high tolerance for pain,” she insists, but holds onto it anyway.

“Nevertheless, I couldn’t find anything labeled for pain, and I’m willing to bet this is going to hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” Violet says, hanging her head. “I always make a mess of things.”

“We make a fine pair, then,” he replies quietly. Violet snorts.

“I suppose we do.”

Tyri’el conjures a small bowl of water and sets it on the bed, dipping a rag into it before kneeling in front of Violet. He takes her hand and begins to wipe away the blood covering her arm, gentle around the fragments of wood and the wounds she’d unintentionally made with her teeth while trying to pull them out. Violet watches him work, her eyelids drooping as he switches to clean the other arm.

“I’m so tired,” she says, blinking hard to keep her eyes focused.

“I would think so,” Tyri’el says, wringing the water from the rag before resuming cleaning her arm. “Kael intended to kill you when he siphoned your life force.”

“Is that what you have to do? To sate your hunger for mana?”

Tyri’el’s careful motions falter for a moment, he cheeks darkening in shame.

“In a manner of speaking,” he replies. “It’s an unspoken rule that we’re only to take mana from creatures, but that isn’t always the case. It…feels better when you drain more.”

“Have you ever taken more?”

“In the beginning,” Tyri’el admits, throwing aside the soiled rag in favor of a clean one. He dispels the dirtied bowl and conjures a new one, dipping the rag into it before lifting it to her cheeks. His eyes stay with the motions of his hands, never meeting hers. “I told myself it was necessary, but…”

He shudders, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Most animals…they scream when you siphon. It’s a sound you can’t block out, no matter how hard you try.”

Violet lifts her hand to brush away his tears with her thumb.

“I just know…” he starts, words failing as finally meets her eyes. “All I’ll ever hear from now on is you. You screaming, you dying. I just…”

Tyri’el knocks the bowl on its side, sending water across the floor, and sits back on his heels. His hair hides his face, and his shoulders shake with silent sobs.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “It’s my fault. All of it. I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Violet says, the sharpness of her tone making his head snap up to look at her. “None of this is your fault. I’m the one who—”

“I never should have brought you with me. This was my fight, my mistake to fix.”

“Your fights become mine.” Her brows knit together, and she takes his hands in hers. “You don’t stand alone anymore.”

“I can’t ask you to—”

“You don’t need to ask, alor a’lunel. I want the good, and the bad.” She chuckles dryly and reaches up to brush her knuckles against his cheek. “Light knows you’ve taken all my bad in strides.”

“You’re worth it,” he replies, lifting his hand to take hers where it rests against his face.

“As are you.” Violet offers an earnest smile. “Even when you don’t feel it.”

Leaning forward, she presses her lips gently to his.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs against her lips.

“And I don’t deserve you, but here we are.”

Tyri’el sighs, unable to hide his smile, and finishes wiping her cheeks and neck clean, handing her the rag so she can clean her chest as he stands and looks over the tools he’s collected.

“Ready?” He asks hesitantly, and she nods wordlessly, swallowing hard. Selecting a pair of large tweezers, Tyri’el moves to sit on the bed next to her. Violet wordlessly shifts his cloak so she can offer her arm, and clenches the handle of the spoon firmly between her teeth. She nods at him, and he takes a deep breath and begins to remove the splinters from her arm. He tries to move as smoothly as possible to minimize pain, but the wood is ragged and often driven very deep into her skin, and her cries of pain are only slightly lessened by the spoon. Each splinter removed is accompanied by a soft apology from him, and he offers her his hand to squeeze after the first few, which she gladly accepts.

Soon, his own eyes are filled with tears, his heart clenching with each barely-contained scream from her. He drops the splinters into a rag in his lap, blotting away the blood shed with each extraction, and his hands and arms are soon as covered in it as hers. Once her arm is as free of wood as he can a manage with his meager tools, he covers the wounds with healing salve and bandages them as well as he is able.

“You’re not so bad at this,” Violet says, taking the spoon from between her teeth when he offers her some water. Her jaw aches from biting down on it, the force evident in the deep teeth marks driven into the handle.

“I spent a summer holiday helping my aunt in her clinic.”

“Aunt?” Violet asks, setting the waterskin on the table. “Your mother and uncle have another sibling?”

“No,” Tyri’el replies, shaking his head as he wipes off his hands. “Cy’lea was my uncle’s wife.”

“Your uncle was married?”

“Hard to believe, I know.” Tyri’el’s fleeting smile turns sad. “She was a priest. It was in her nature to soothe unruly souls.”

“And she…when the Scourge…”

“And my cousins.” Tyri’el wipes the blood from the tweezers and dips them in a bottle of alcohol. Sensing her unspoken question, he continues. “His sons were into their fifth and second centuries, but Ty’ala…she was the same age as Senna.”

“Only three,” Violet says, heart falling at the thought. Tyri’el nods. “Light, I never thought…I didn’t think…”

“Their loss changed him. Believe it or not, I used to consider him my fun uncle.”

“I think I understand now why he must hate me so much.”

“Why’s that?”

“Unless he or your mother bear more children…you’re the tail end of the Sunfury line. And you…you chose _me_.” Violet scrubs her hand down her face. “Light above, I’m going to singlehandedly end two prized bloodlines in one go.”

“You make me sound like a show horse,” Tyri’el says, though there’s no humor in his voice. The thought has crossed his mind on more than one occasion, but he’s always absolutely refused to allow himself to dwell on it, because it always ends with the glaring fact that she won’t live anywhere as long as he will. Violet sighs, shifting to offer him her other arm.

“Just yank these things out. I prefer it to thinking too long on this subject.” She puts the spoon back into her mouth, and he proceeds to work on her arm without another word. This one takes less time, seeing as she’d removed some of the wood herself, and soon both arms are salved and bandaged, leaving only her legs and back. Her legs have only a few shards each, and are easily taken care of in only a matter of minutes.

“Almost done,” Tyri’el assures her, wiping her cheeks once he’s cleaned off his hands. “Will you let me look at your back?”

“I suppose you need to,” Violet replies with a sniff. Her cheeks pink as she shifts the cloak to bare her shoulders. “Forgive me for this mess. This isn’t at all what I had in mind for the first time you saw me out of my clothes.”

Tyri’el snorts.

“I can quite honestly say the same,” he says, surveying the shards of wood sticking from her back to make her look like a much prettier version of a quillboar. He curses under his breath, and she looks over her shoulder at him.

“What is it?”

“It’s just…Belore’s wrath, how are you not howling in pain?” He quickly amends his statement. “Ah, forgive the turn of phrase.”

“Amusing,” Violet says, rolling her shoulders. “They don’t hurt that much, really. I said I have a high tolerance for pain.”

“Evidently,” Tyri’el replies, eyes finding a patch of dark skin on her back, just above where the cloak covers her. “Is this…”

He runs his index finger over the raised mark, and Violet shivers.

“The scar, from when I was bitten.” Tears return to her eyes, but she does her best to keep them from her voice. “It’s never healed.”

“Like mine,” Tyri’el says, touching at his neck.

“Evil leaves a mark,” Violet replies, nodding.

“Once I take these out, will you…tell me what happened?”

“I suppose you ought to know,” Violet says, pausing for a moment before letting out a long sigh. “I will.”

“These will hurt more,” Tyri’el says, shifting on the mattress to find the best angle to remove the many large pieces.

“Just do it,” she replies, returning the much-damaged spoon to her mouth. Though he tries to be gentle, several of the shards are difficult to remove, and they require a lot of force to fully extract. Violet screams into the cloak, her body shaking from the pain, and more than once, she thinks she might pass out. The sheets on the bed are covered in blood by the time her back is clear, and Tyri’el himself is feeling a little lightheaded, both from fatigue and worry over her condition.

“That was the last one,” he says, wiping his hands. Violet grunts in response, straightening up from the huddled crouch she’s settled into, and takes the spoon from her mouth to throw it across the room with as much force as she can muster.

“What happens now?” She asks, looking over her shoulder at him as he unfurls a roll of bandages.

“We leave, if you’re up to it,” he replies, motioning for her to turn around. He looks almost as tired as she feels, and a pang of guilt hits her as she obeys.

“What about…your father?”

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, hands gentle as he coats each wound in salve. “It’s not safe to stay here any longer than necessary.”

“Back to the Sanctum, then?”

“No. I want to get off this island and…” He trails off, falling silent as he continues to work.

“And?”

“I don’t ever want to come back. This place…it…”

“I understand,” Violet says, nodding. “Where will we go?”

“I can’t teleport us very far,” he admits, starting on the bandages. “At most, I could get us back to Sunfury Spire.”

“The Regent Lord should know what happened today,” Violet says, and Tyri’el nods.

“I’ll also speak with Halduron about sending more reinforcements.”

“Will they be all right with me inside their city again?”

“Lor’themar is a reasonable person. He might not like it, but you were wounded in the defense of Quel’Thalas, so one night will be easy enough to bargain for.”

“I killed the prince, Tyri’el. He should be executing me.”

“He doesn’t need to know it was you.” Sighing, Tyri’el hands the end of the bandage to her to help him wrap it around her midsection. “No one needs to know about what happened here tonight.”

“You’ll know.”

“And I’ll take it to my grave,” he says, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. “I swear it to you.”

Violet murmurs a soft thanks, and they continue to wrap bandages for a few moments in uneasy silence.

“Am I the only one who…knows about you?”

“No. There’s a handful of people still. Most of them are in Stormwind, and the rest in Dalaran.”

“Can I ask who?”

“In Dalaran, whoever makes up the Council of Six, and…” Violet pauses, biting her lip. “A few mages of the Kirin Tor.”

“You said you were young when it happened? How long ago did the Council find out?”

“I was thirteen, so seven years, give or take. Why?”

Tyri’el pauses, sucking in a breath as he does the math.

“My father was part of the Council of Six. He would have known.”

“Light. He must not have recognized me.”

“Who else?” Tyri’el asks, not wanting to dwell on the thought of what might have happened if his father had known who he’d gotten involved with.

“King Wrynn, Highlord Fordragon, Lady…well, I suppose I don’t have to worry about running into Lady Prestor anytime soon.”

“You mean to tell me the High King of the Alliance knew, and he let you live in his city?” Tyri’el feels Violet stiffen at his words and backtracks quickly. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“I know,” Violet says, though there’s still a hint of hurt in her voice. “Doctor Arkwright petitioned the crown to allow him to transfer me from the Violet Hold to the Stockades so he could keep his clinic open and still work towards a cure for me.”

“They held you in the Violet Hold?” Tyri’el pauses, shocked.

“Wouldn’t you want to keep me locked away if I had no control over my other self? If I couldn’t remember I was ever human and had fully succumbed to the Mindless State?”

“I suppose…I can see the reason behind it.” Tyri’el moves to work on finding a way to bandage her shoulders. “How did it happen, if you don’t min—”

“I told you, I don’t mind,” she snaps, taking the bandages from him to wrap them around her chest. “After my mother died, my mentor took me to Southshore to…well, it doesn’t matter why. All that matters is that we were on our way back to Capital City when we stopped to camp for the night outside of Pyrewood Village. The villagers warned us not to, that it was a full moon and there had been sightings of strange beasts in the woods around Silverlaine Keep, but my mentor waved them off with the usual assurances that the Light would protect its children.”

Violet lets out a small, tired sigh.

“We were attacked just after nightfall. There was a whole pack of them - worgen, I found out later.”

“The same worgen summoned by Archmage Arugal to combat the Scourge?”

“The very same. My mentor held them off and told me to flee, but one of them pursued me and killed my horse. It…bit me before I could kill it. I wandered for Light only knows how long, keeping myself alive with my failing connection to the Light before…” Violet grasps at her necklace. “A young man from Dalaran found me not far from the city. He brought me back, unconscious and barely alive, and took me to Doctor Arkwright. The Council of Six got involved when a mage saw my wound and realized what had bitten me.”

“I remember hearing about similar attacks, but I can’t recall hearing that anyone survived long enough to be afflicted.”

“I suppose I was too stubborn to die. I spent the next year in a cell until Doctor Arkwright found a cure to bring me out of the Mindless State. A mixture of medicine and magic.”

“That’s…nothing short of a miracle.”

“So I’ve been told.” There’s a bitter edge to Violet’s voice. “He adopted me after that. The wall was closed and I had nowhere else to go.”

“Your mentor, was she…”

“Katherine? Light, no. She’s far too stubborn to die so easily. Even more so than me. She wasn’t bitten, either.” A hint of humor returns to her voice as she finishes the last of the bandaging. “She’s back in Stormwind, training others to be paladins from the Cathedral of Light.”

“Does she know you’re alive?”

“No. I never…I never had the heart to write to her. I think she’s better off not knowing what course my life took after my family died. She wouldn’t approve of my being a rogue.” Violet looks over her shoulder, then shifts around to face Tyri’el. He averts his eyes, despite her chest being fully covered by bandages now. “She wouldn’t approve of you, either.”

“No?” Tyri’el asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’m told I can be very charming when I want to be.”

“You’ll get no argument here,” Violet says with a tired smile. “Is there anything else you want to know? I feel the day starting to catch up to me.”

“Questions can wait,” he says, drawing her into a gentle kiss. “I’m just glad you survived long enough to stumble into my life.”

“As am I,” Violet replies, leaning against him and closing her eyes. She feels him reach towards the table before placing a bundle of fabric in her hands.

“Put this on. It likely won’t fit properly, but it’s better than wrapping you in a sheet.”

Violet opens her eyes to find what looks like a mage’s robe in her hands, and she begins to ask where he got it but stays quiet, deciding she doesn’t really want to know. He kisses her forehead, lips lingering there for a long moment before he stands.

“Rest. I’ll be back in a little while to take us to Silvermoon.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to…take care of my father. I won’t be long.”

“Tyri’el.” Violet takes his hand when he moves to leave, and he looks back at her in question. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

“I know,” he says, squeezing her hand. “So am I.”

He returns sometime later, the passing of time meaning nothing to Violet as she falls into a deep, hard sleep after clumsily pulling on the robe. His clothes smell of smoke as he picks her up, careful of her wounds, and casts a teleportation spell. Violet struggles to keep a hold on what little consciousness she’s regained, but it all ends up a messy blur of voices and colors before she’s back in a soft bed with Tyri’el holding her close. Real sleep claims them both easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Alor a’lunel" is my attempt at Darnassian for 'my love'. I couldn't find a direct translation, so I smooshed together some random sounds and called it good.
> 
> Violet's mentor is an actual in-game NPC, Katherine the Pure. She's in the Cathedral of Light in SW next to the first aid trainers (as an actual [obsolete] paladin trainer), and in the Sanctum of Light as the person you talk to to queue into the Proving Grounds if you have a paladin.


	44. A Moment's Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW.

Sunlight dances across Tyri’el’s eyelids, pulling him gently from a sound sleep. It’s easy to forget where he is and the hellish last few days as he opens his eyes to find Violet’s sleeping form curled up against him, her hands fisted in his shirt and her head resting on his shoulder. She’s barely moved since he tucked her into the bed the night before, a testament to the exhaustion brought on by his father’s siphoning. Her color looks better, but perhaps that’s just a trick of the warm light filtering in through the curtains, or that her fair skin simply looks healthier against the dark red of the satin bedsheets. Either way, she doesn’t seem to have worsened during the night, and he presses a soft kiss to her forehead and pulls back to run his fingers through her hair.

His mind tries to reconcile the beauty of the sleeping woman in his arms with the raw feral display of her other self, as she’d called it. How many times had she nearly succumbed to the creature’s urges since they’d met? How close had he come to being on the receiving end of its ire? Several instances come to mind, images of her body shaking and her teeth bared, and a shudder passes through him at the thought. He thinks back to the poison-induced haze in Zangarmarsh, to claws and teeth tearing apart naga like they were nothing more than paper in her hands, and then to the ease with which she’d subdued his father. Both times, he realizes, she’d let this other self out when his life was in danger. Only when there was no other option.

Tyri’el brushes his knuckles over Violet’s cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin, and at the fact that she’s here with him. He’s never been particularly religious or prone to believe in frivolous notions such as fate, but he can’t help but wonder if something beyond a simple coincidence had brought them into each other’s lives. A hundred things could have kept him from crossing paths with her on that night, but those hundred things lined up perfectly and led them both to that stream. How strange it is, to think back to the first few words they’d spoken to each other, to the venomous comments shot back and forth, and to know that somehow, they’ve come to see each other as so much more than the banners they stand under.

Elves, whether quel’dorei or sin’dorei, have always been fascinated by humans. Even to one so young as Tyri’el, the concept of fitting a full, well-lived life into seventy or eighty years is simply astounding. To go from infant to elder in the time it takes his people to barely reach the end of adolescence is both amazing and strangely morbid. Even more so now that he’s come to love one.

He’s known a number of his kind who have taken human mates, but he’s never given it much thought until now. Both Alleria and Vareesa Windrunner took humans as their husbands, and he suspects that, had she not been slain and raised to fight for the Scourge, Sylvanas very well could have followed her sister’s paths with Nathanos. Ken’dorei - half-elves - are not unheard of, however much the elven elitists might wish they did not exist. It’s frowned upon to enter into anything more than a casual tryst with a human, a luxury only afforded to those with enough power to proclaim themselves above tradition, or to those with such low status that nothing is considered beneath them. For the last member of the Sunstrider dynasty, however, it goes so far beyond bending the rules of societal norm.

Heart sinking, Tyri’el realizes what Violet had meant when she’d seemed so remorseful over supposedly ending two bloodlines the night before. He, the scion of the two most ancient and powerful families in all of Quel’Thalas, couldn’t possibly taint his dying heritage with the blood of a lowborn human. That’s what his uncle would say, at least. Even from a very early age, Tyri’el had known he’d be expected to wed someone from another prominent family and produce heirs to carry on his bloodline, and he’d resigned himself to it as something as unchanging as the eternal summer of his homeland. Capernian had been a rare stroke of good luck on his part - eldest daughter of the Grand Astromancer and a promising mage in her own right - and he came to think that having a family with her would not be the end of the world as some had made it seem. Ralen had been happy with his wife, and so had his uncle with his aunt.

But Capernian is dead now, and Tyri’el is left to stare down at Violet and wonder what their future will hold. He knows without any reservations that he will give her anything and everything she might ask of him, be that his love or his life or…

Violet would be a good mother, he thinks with a strange pressure in his chest. More than good enough to make up for the ineptitude he would no doubt display as a father. He imagines the children they might have - beautiful and brave like their mother, growing up knowing that they are loved and accepted. The small smile brought on by the thought of tiny blonde children fades at the reminder that he would likely outlive them by a millennium, at least. Nothing good in his life can ever last, an ever-present weight that he knows will never lift from his shoulders.

For now, however, he can simply exist in the warmth brought by Violet as she sighs in in her sleep, her gentle breaths warm on his neck. It’s still so surreal to think that she chose him, of all people. Of everyone on Azeroth, she wants him, and he still can’t quite comprehend why. Surely she would be better suited to someone else - anyone else - and yet, time and again, she’s shown that he is what she’s willing to fight for. Willing to die for, and more than once. Part of him wants to believe it’s some great misunderstanding, or a very long-winded joke, but he does his best to bury those nagging thoughts as he pulls her closer against him and revels in the blessing of momentary peace that she embodies.

Many hours later, when the sun has passed its highest point and begins to drag down towards the horizon, Violet awakens to find herself warm and secure, buried under several thick blankets. She should be overheated with all the fabric on top of and tucked around her like the nest of a small mammal, but she writes it off to some elven enchantment and stretches, testing her limbs. Her back is sore, but it’s the dull ache of overtaxed muscles rather than the sharp pain of open wounds. The faint flicker of Light is tangible on her skin, and she realizes that a healer must have seen to her while she slept. Stretching her fingers out towards the side of the bed she knows Tyri’el favors, she sits bolt upright when she finds nothing but empty sheets in her grasp.

The room around her is well-appointed in the reds and golds of the sin’dorei, with high ceilings and tall windows letting in both ample sunlight and a pleasant breeze, but the spark of panic in her chest flares when she finds she’s quite alone. Tyri’el’s staff is nowhere to be seen, nor are his boots or his cloak. The room smells like him, as do the sheets twisted nearly to ripping between her fingers, but there’s no sign of him otherwise. He can’t have left, she tells herself. He wouldn’t.

“Tyri’el?” She calls his name, waiting a few agonizing seconds without any response. “No, no, no.”

Violet throws off the covers, jumping out of bed despite the tight stiffness in her legs, and moves around the room, searching for any sign of him. A small closet she finds by the door proves empty of any of his belongings, and she starts searching underneath furniture and behind drapes like a woman possessed, praying harder with each passing second that he hasn’t abandoned her. He’d said that he wasn’t scared of her, that her other self didn’t change how he felt about her, but she begins to wonder if he wasn’t just placating the beast inside her until he had a chance to run.

“You promised,” she says, voice spiking as she pleads to thin air. “You _promised!”_

The pitcher of water left on a side table shatters against the opposite wall in a spray of glass, and the pounding of blood in her ears rises as she tries to rationalize the situation. Her other self is hissing in her ear, telling her to destroy this room, to destroy the whole damned city of liars and traitors and enemies, and she isn’t sure if she’s hurt more by the fact that he’d lied or the fact that he’d felt the need to lie in the first place. She’s known he would leave. Everyone always leaves, always—

“Belore’s wrath, what’s wrong?”

Violet whirls around, teeth bared and body crouched low and ready to pounce, but the beast draws back and her thoughts clear when she sees that it’s Tyri’el who’s spoken. A hidden door, one made to look like part of the wall, sits wide open behind him, and a cloud of steam billows out around him. He’s dripping wet, his long, pale hair still partially full of soap suds, and he’s clutching a towel at his waist as he raises his free hand out before him.

“Violet? It’s me, it’s—”

“You didn’t leave,” she says, watching him with wide eyes rimmed with fading tears. “You didn’t run.”

“Of course not,” he replies, brow furrowing. “Why would I ever…you really thought I would leave?”

“I…I didn’t know. It smells like you but I couldn’t find your staff and…” Violet trails off, hanging her head. “I thought you might have changed your mind. Because I’m…”

“I’m not leaving,” Tyri’el says, slicking back a stray lock of hair as he approaches her, still a bit cautious. “And you aren’t…you aren’t whatever terrible thing you seem to think you are.”

“Do you really believe that?” Violet closes the distance between them, reaching out to him but hesitating as she waits for him to answer.

“Without a single reservation,” he replies, voice as soft as his eyes as he wipes her cheek with his thumb. It proves counterproductive with his hand still wet from his bath, but the meaning behind the gesture is clear. “I may not understand exactly what made you what you are, but you’re still yourself as far as I care.”

“And you still…”

“And I still love you.”

Violet’s sad smile breaks into a grin, and she stands up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss.

“I broke the pitcher,” she says when she pulls back, her body still close to his. It takes Tyri’el a moment to register her words and open his eyes, but he looks over and shakes his head.

“It was conjured,” he says, nodding at the wall, and Violet follows his line of sight and sees that there’s nothing left of the pitcher but a few swirls of dissolving magic.

“Oh,” she says softly, stepping back with cheeks flushing as she brushes at the now-wet fabric of her robe.. “I…should let you get back to your bath.”

“I’m almost done,” he says, his own face red up to the tips of his ears. “I can draw you one, if you’d like.”

“I would,” she replies, nodding. Tyri’el offers a shy smile and moves back towards the bathroom door.

“A few minutes,” he assures her, pulling it shut behind him. Violet watches him go, head slightly inclined to one side as she watches the lines of his body as he walks away. She shakes her head to clear her thoughts, scrubbing her hand down her face in a vain attempt to chase away the heat rising just beneath her skin. While she’s never been blind to how handsome Tyri’el is, until now, she’s never seen him so lacking clothing, and _Light_ , he is magnificent. It’s only fair, she muses while fussing with a flower arrangement, that now she’s seen just as much of him as he has of her. With an agitated sigh, she leaves the poor, crumpled flowers alone and looks for another distraction. True to his word, Tyri’el emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, his hair rinsed and combed out, and his towel replaced with a pair of loose trousers. Violet can’t help but pout a little at his change of garments.

“All ready,” he says, using a small towel to dry his ears. “I can heat it up for you if the water gets too cold.”

Violet murmurs a soft thanks, admittedly distracted by his lack of a shirt.

“I had one of the Spire servants find you a change of clothes. I can’t say they’ll fit well.” Tyri’el rubs at his neck, unconsciously covering his scars when he sees her looking at them.

“Why not?” Violet frowns, noticing his discomfort.

“It’s just that, ah…” He trails off, looking down at his feet. “Humans are a bit…curvier than elves.”

“I…see.” Violet looks down at herself, realizing that he’s right. Elven women are much thinner, and anyone would be hard-pressed to find a sin’dorei within the city that’s overweight enough to fill out even her own petite clothing. “Is that…a bad thing?”

“No,” Tyri’el says, jumping into a response almost immediately. He pauses, that same shy smile returning as he looks her over and meets her eyes. “I think it’s a good thing. A…very good thing.”

Violet laughs, more nervous than amused, and moves towards the bathroom door.

“I’ll be right here if you need anything,” Tyri’el says, looking at her in earnest. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

“I believe you,” Violet replies, a heavier meaning and understanding passing between them. She pulls the door shut behind her, leaning her forehead against it for a moment before gently knocking her head against it a few times. Pushing an exasperated sigh out between her lips, she turns around. The bathroom is quite large, and she wonders briefly if there’s some sort of spell on the room that makes it bigger than the space it occupies outside. The bathtub alone could fit ten people if they wanted to, and as she thinks about it, she decides that’s probably the exact reason it’s so large. Even before the Third War and the sin’dorei joining the larger world, there was no shortage of whispering about the rather…casual intimate practices of the elves of Quel’Thalas.

Dragging herself from that thought, Violet approaches the massive tub, testing the water with her fingers to find the water pleasantly warm, and smelling of flowers and sweet oils. A pile of clean towels is laid out to one side, as is a basket of soaps and bathing items that smell even stronger than the water. She opens each one, smelling them in curiosity, before one catches her attention. Lilies, she realizes, the same kind used to make her mother’s favorite perfume. At one time, they’d been called Stratholme Lilies, but the name has since fallen out of use. The bitter coincidence has never been lost on Violet, and she takes the bottle and shoves it into the back of a drawer within the vanity near the tub. A set of clothes, made of rich, dark purple mageweave rests atop the vanity, and she can’t help but smile at the thought of Tyri’el asking some poor servant to find him human-sized clothing.

The robe she’s wearing proves easy enough to free her arms from, but the waist is tied a bit too tightly and she can’t undo the knot. Giving up on it for the moment, she reaches up to begin undoing the bandages wrapped around her chest, but the stiffness in her arms and the tight pull of the healing skin on her back make it impossible to reach in quite the right way no matter how she twists and struggles. With a sigh of resignation, she moves over to the door and opens it just a crack, looking out into the room beyond.

“Something wrong?” Tyri’el asks, having apparently been regarding the door with some amount of interest, and his face relaxes from its previous pout, quickly replaced with a look of curiosity. He uncrosses his arms from over his bare chest. “Is the water too warm?”

“No, it’s just…” Violet pauses, lost for words like a shy young girl. “I can’t…I can’t get these bandages off by myself.”

“Oh,” Tyri’el says after a moment. “I can call for Belestra again. She’s been tending your wounds per Lor’themar’s orders.”

“Would you mind? It won’t take but a moment.”

Flush spreading from his cheeks down across his chest, Tyri’el nods, taking a hesitant step forward.

“You’re sure you want my help?”

“You’re the one that put them on me.”

“Yes, I…did, didn’t I?” Tyri’el follows her back into the bathroom, wanting to fidget with his absent shirtsleeves in his trepidation. He moves to the vanity, rummaging clumsily through the drawers for a small pair of scissors. Violet sits on the edge of the tub, swirling her fingers in the water as a desperate distraction, and startles when she feels Tyri’el’s hand on her shoulder. He murmurs an apology, choosing to start as safely as possible with the bandages on one of her arms. They come away easily, and he’s pleased to see the skin underneath, while still pink, shows remarkably little of the wounds he’d bandaged the night before. He remarks as he moves on to the other arm. “You’re healing quite well.” 

“I usually do, when I’m not being thrown about by the Banshee Queen.”

A pang of guilt, the kind that had lessened as Sylvanas treated her with more respect, wrenches in Tyri’el’s chest, but he says nothing of it.

“These next,” he says, tapping the middle of her back to indicate the bandages that wrap around to cover her chest.

“All right,” she says, nodding absently as she tries to ignore the brush of his fingertips against her skin as he works. The bandages fall away and he collects them in a shaky handful, setting them aside and handing her the scissors so she can reach down to snip away the cloth wound around her legs. She hands him the cut remnants without looking at him, hoping that her cheeks are the only thing burning red right now. Tyri’el moves to the other side of the room, his back to her, and reduces the soiled cloth in his hands to ash with simple cantrip. He stares intently at the wall, waiting until he hears water moving behind him, then waits a few moments more before slowly turning around. Violet sits in the bathtub, hunched over with her knees pulled against her chest. Just the very bottom of her hair touches the water, and Tyri’el realizes with a flutter in his gut that if she couldn’t reach back to undo the bandages, she probably can’t reach up to wash her hair.

“Do you…would you like some help?” He asks, earning a questioning look from her. “With your hair, that is.”

“I…would like that, yes,” she replies, now fully convinced that every inch of her is flushing deep red. She’d realized her predicament before he apparently had, and there is no way she would have asked for his help. But, as usual he continues to find every possible chance to both help her and offer her a new reminder that she’s acting like a shy child. With as much time as she’s spent in the ‘liberal south’, she’s still very much a prudent and private Gilnean at heart. Light above, if Katherine could see her now…

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” Tyri’el says, and Violet looks over her shoulder to see that he’s settled on the edge of the tub behind her, a comb clutched in one hand with a vice-like grip. She nods, and he starts to comb away the tangles in her golden locks. There’s still smatterings of felblood in places, and they prove tricky to work out, but Violet doesn’t protest. Once the knots are all smoothed, Tyri’el sets down the comb and picks up a small porcelain bowl. “Ah, lean back. If you want.”

Violet obeys, easing from her slouch to rest her back against the smooth side of the bathtub. Tyri’el proceeds to dip the bowl into the water to wet her hair, moving onto working soap through it once it’s damp. He’s incredibly gentle at it, and Violet finds herself closing her eyes and relaxing as he works. There was a time that she’d visit the barber shop in Stormwind with her adoptive mother and sister, but that frivolous luxury is long since abandoned in her travels.

“You’re deceptively skilled at this,” she comments, and Tyri’el snorts.

“My hair is longer than yours, and I’ve had it this way for most of my life. It builds a certain proficiency, I’ll concede.”

“I’ve known several noblewomen who would do heinous things for hair like yours.”

“Really now? I suppose it’s good I don’t go to Stormwind often, then, yes?”

“Oh, there would be a riot in Stormwind, I’m sure,” she says, her smile evident in her voice. “But the ones I was referring to live in Dalaran.”

“You’ve spent time in Dalaran?” Tyri’el quickly amends his question. “Outside of the Violet Hold, that is?”

“The doctor who adopted me was very good friends with…a minor lord there. I…we would spend holidays in the city sometimes. I suppose I became an acquaintance of many of the lesser members of the Kirin Tor through his family.”

“What was his name, this lord?” Tyri’el starts to rinse out the soap, his hands moving methodically through her hair to clear the suds. “I’ll admit I haven’t been to the city in quite some time as anything more than a guest of the Underbelly prison, but I spent enough time there to get to know many of the families who lived there for generations.”

“Lord Goddard,” Violet says, hand coming out of the water to grasp at her necklace.

“Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“They were from Redridge. Before the First War, that is.”

“Good people, I take it?”

“Very. He and his wife were like second parents to me, and their children…” Violet pauses, breath hitching at the painful clench in her chest at the thought. “We were very close.”

Tyri’el takes note of the change in her demeanor, frowning but saying nothing of it. They fall silent, and Tyri’el digs through the basket of supplies for a bar of soap that he hands to her over her shoulder. She thanks him softly, letting go of her necklace to begin to slough away the layer of grime coating her skin as he works sweet-smelling oil through her hair.

“I appreciate your helping me with this,” Violet says after a while. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says with a small sigh. “I suppose I wanted to show you that it…that I’m willing to be here for you when you’re not at your best.”

“Light, that’s the understatement of the century.”

“I’m serious,” Tyri’el says, running the comb through her hair one last time before he decides his work is done.

“I know,” she says, turning slowly to look up at him. “I don’t understand why, but I’m grateful nonetheless.”

Tyri’el smiles down at her, caught off guard when she pushes herself up at the edge of the tub to pull him into a kiss with her hand on the back of his neck. He tenses, taking a moment to ease into the embrace, but he holds his hands out to either side, unsure where to put them.

“You can touch me, if you’d like,” Violet says, barely a whisper against his lips. Reaching up to close her fingers around one of his hands, she guides it back to rest on one of her breasts. For a few breaths, Tyri’el kisses her with more fervor, but all at once, he finds himself jerking out of her reach and backing away from the tub. He means to explain himself, to tell her why, but the words die in his throat and he’s gone, leaving Violet to to blink and wonder what just happened. She hangs her head, suddenly ashamed of herself, and the heat she’d felt just a few moments before is gone, as cooled as her skin from the soft breeze coming from the small window above the tub. She runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head as she stands and grabs one of the towels to hastily dry her skin before wrapping it around her body. Stepping cautiously out into the room, she finds Tyri’el sitting on the end of the bed, his head in his hands, and she makes sure to keep a foot or so between them when she sits down next to him. When she speaks, it’s softly with a voice full of remorse. “I’m sorry, Tyri’el.”

“Don’t be.”

“I didn’t…I should have…it won’t happen again.”

“That’s—”

“I should have thought about…that you might not have…had much experience in this…that you might be a bit shy about things like that.”

“What?” Tyri’el says, lifting his head to look over at her. He shakes his head. “No, that’s not what…I’ve had plenty of experience with…”

He trails off, shaking his head with an exasperated huff of air.

“Plenty?”

“Enough,” he says. “I’ve been with enough people to…that’s not why I stopped.”

Violet watches him, keeping her questions about his choice of words to herself. A thought hits her, and she frowns, holding her arms tight against her chest.

“It’s because of what I am. What you saw.”

“No, of course not. It’s—”

“Then why?”

“It’s just…is this really what you want?” His voice breaks with an emotion she can’t quite read, and he stands, walking over to face the window. He looks back at her. “Am…I what you want?”

“Yes,” she says without any trace of hesitation, standing to move towards him. “What’s got you thinking that I wouldn’t want you? All of you.”

“Because I don’t understand why you - bright, beautiful, completely beyond me you - would want…” He gestures helplessly at himself. “Millions of people on Azeroth, Violet, all of them a better choice than me, all of them unlikely not to want you and…I don’t understand.”

“Millions of people, sure,” she says, nodding as she stands before him, reaching out to put her hand on his cheek, “and I don’t want a single bloody one of them more than I want you.”

Violet places the palm of her hand on his bare chest, over his heart, and she can feel it hammering under her fingers.

“None of them have this.” She looks up at him, sincerity written painfully clear on her face. “None of them are you.”

“But I’m—”

“Exactly who I want.”

“You’re…certain?”

“More certain than I’ve been of anything in far too long.”

“Then I…” Tyri’el’s voice falls away, searching for words before abandoning them altogether in favor of pulling her close and claiming her lips. She runs her hand down his chest, resting it on the flat plane of his stomach, and looks up at him from under long lashes with her lower lip caught between her teeth.

“Will you let me show you how certain I am?”

He shivers at the purr in her voice and tugs at the tucked hem of the towel over her chest with a wry smile playing on his lips.

“Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made possible by Fade To Black® technology, and readers like you. Thank you.
> 
> I have a bit of a headcanon about sex in Quel'Thalas. They're super pretty, they live for thousands of years...there is _**no** _ way that they just...don't get freaky with it. Everyone is pretty chill about it (that's not to say they can't get flustered now and again), partner gender(s) doesn't really matter, etc.


	45. Cutting Ties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Voluntary injury/self harm.

“It’s almost sundown,” Violet murmurs, nuzzling against Tyri’el’s neck to trail sleepy kisses up his jaw.

“Mm, so it is,” Tyri’el replies, and he turns his head to the window to see the stars winking into view in the darkening sky. The last of the failing light catches on the gold of Violet’s hair, making it shine like a halo where it spills over her face and across his bare chest. “Where _did_ the evening go?”

“You know damn well where.” Violet smiles through a yawn, pushing herself up onto her elbow to look down at him. “You’re beautiful, you know that, yeah?”

“So you keep telling me.” Tyri’el smiles lazily, putting his hand to the side of her neck so he can draw her back into a gentle kiss. “What’s the Gilnean phrase? Takes one to know one?”

“That’s usually reserved for insults, but I suppose I’ll take it.” Looking out the window for a time, Violet can’t help but sigh. “I wish we could stay longer.”

“You do?”

“It’s not so much the city itself,” Violet admits, looking back to him. “I wish we had more time to ourselves. Just us.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Tyri’el says, sitting up next to her, and in the process, misses her wince at his words.

“Do we?”

“Of course. There’s nowhere we need to be.”

“That…isn’t what I meant.” There’s a deep sadness in her voice, one she feels in her chest like a knife wedged between her ribs. Tyri’el’s brows knit, her meaning taking a moment to become clear.

“Copper for your thoughts?” He asks, watching the light of the sunset catch on the moisture rimming her eyes.

“I can’t help but feel guilty for…” Violet pauses, taking one of his hands and turning it over in hers just so she doesn’t have to look at him as she speaks. “I feel like I’m cheating you by letting you love me.”

“Because you’re human.”

“Yes,” she says, tracing the lines on his palm with her fingertip. “I can’t imagine having to live without you, but someday you’ll have to live without me, and if our places were reversed…”

She finally looks up at him, wishing the hurt held in his eyes wasn’t at her expense.

“Do you really love me so much that you’re willing to lose me so soon?”

“You make it sound like you have a week to live,” Tyri’el says, his laugh dry in a poor attempt at humor, but his words only twist her face into a grimace. He stills her hand, taking both of hers to bring them to rest over his heart. “This is yours for as long as you’ll have me, be that two more minutes or the rest of your life. Losing you…”

The words sting his throat and bring tears to prick at the corners of his eyes.

“Losing you will be hell, but every moment until then will be worth more than I could ever have hoped for, and doubly more than I deserve.”

“I will always feel this guilt,” Violet insists. “Your people are so few, Tyri’el. I’m just another human stealing the future from them.”

“It’s not stealing if I give it willingly.”

“You shouldn’t give your love so freely.” Torn between wanting to cling to him and never ease her hold, and setting him free like a bird only caged by its own foolishness, Violet simply looks at him, watching a myriad of emotions swirl behind his eyes. His expression settles, his eyes hard and his mouth set in a thin line.

“I don’t need one more person telling me what I should and should not do, especially you. Especially this.” Tyri’el lets out a breath through his nose. “My whole life, I’ve been told I’ll be herded into a perfectly planned marriage with some nice girl, and settle into a nice, quite life with well-bred, well-mannered children in an unblemished fairy story of a life. I’ve never had a choice until you.”

“That’s my point. You have a choice, and you—”

“Chose you. And I will choose you every time, until the end of time.” His hands find her cheeks, and he looks her dead in the eye. “I don’t want perfect. I don’t want a parchment cutout life full of fake smiles and tears behind closed doors. I want every messy, bloody, chaos-filled moment with you. And when I have to let you go…I will get on my hands and knees and thank Belore and the Light and whoever out there will listen that I was lucky enough to scream and cry and fight beside you.”

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

Violet rests her forehead against his and closes her eyes, twining her fingers with his between them.

“Promise me that it will be you who has to bury me. Promise me that I will never, ever have to give you up. Never spend one bloody day of my pathetic, human life without you there, telling me that you love me.”

“I promise,” Tyri’el breathes, chest clenching at the thought of the day he’ll lose her. “What’s more, I swear it to you.”

A heated kiss signals her acceptance of his oath, and they only break apart for need of air. A short knock on the door draws a groan from Tyri’el, who looks apologetically at Violet before climbing out of bed to find his trousers where they’d been hastily discarded earlier. Pulling them on and smoothing at his hair, he makes his way to the door and opens it just a crack to peek out into the corridor beyond.

“Good evening, Tyri’el,” Halduron says, one long eyebrow raised as Tyri’el opens the door farther to greet him. A hint of a knowing smirk graces his fair features. “Lor sent me to check in on you and your…special friend.”

“We’ll be out of the city within the hour, Ranger General,” Tyri’el replies, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

“Not necessary, really. The Regent Lord wished me to inform you that the two of you needn’t leave if you would rather stay. In light of your…of Miss Devereaux’s selfless actions in pursuit of the greater good, word has been given that she’s welcome in the city as a guest of the crown, as it were.”

“That is…generous of him.”

“Too generous, according to our dear Grand Magister.” Halduron nearly rolls his eyes.

“And how do you feel about it?”

“There’s too much darkness in the world now, Tyri’el.” Halduron’s air turns somber, but his eyes remain soft. “I say, take a little light whenever you can grasp it.”

“Thank him for me,” Tyri’el says, and Halduron nods.

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” he replies, producing an envelope from somewhere in his intricate armor. “This came for you by way of a very surly bat rider.”

Tyri’el takes the envelope, heart sinking at the sight of the familiar crest borne by a seal of deep purple wax.

“Belore’s wrath,” he says on a sigh.

“Enjoy your evening,” Halduron says, smirk returning. “Should you need me for anything—”

“You’ll be upstairs with the Regent Lord, grasping for a little light of your own?”

Halduron laughs, tapping his nose to silently let Tyri’el know he’s correct.

“Good evening, Ranger General,” Tyri’el says, and they exchange a shallow bow.

“Are they angry we’ve stayed so long?” Violet asks as he comes back to the bed.

“Actually, Lor’themar has decided you’re welcome in the city going forward.”

Violet blinks in disbelief, shaking her head after a moment.

“Sorry, I thought you just said that your Regent Lord is all right with a human in his city.”

“We don’t take sacrifices lightly,” Tyri’el says, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “You put yourself in great danger for us.”

“You told him what happened?”

“Not the details. Just that you ultimately saved my life and were wounded in the process of…” Tyri’el trails off, and Violet puts her hand on his arm in silent support. “In short, Lor’themar is grateful to you.”

“He shouldn’t be,” she says softly, nodding when she sees the envelope in his hands. “What’s that?”

“An angry letter from Sylvanas, I’m assuming.” He breaks the seal, quickly scanning the message, and sighs.

“What?”

“She wants us back in the Undercity as soon as possible.”

Violet can’t help the sound of disgust that escapes her.

“Did she give a reason?”

“No, but I’m sure the underlying reasoning involves her being Queen and us being her subjects.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Violet says, closing her eyes as her hand finds her locket. “It’s…I hate it there.”

“I can’t say it’s my favorite place on Azeroth, but I do have a duty to fulfill.”

“Why have you stayed, if you don’t like it?”

Tyri’el thinks on his answer for a moment.

“I suppose because the Forsaken are just that. They feel they don’t belong amongst the rest of the world, and most days, I feel the same.”

“It’s easy to be grateful when you think of everything they’ve lost,” Violet says, nodding. “I suppose by ‘as soon as possible’, she means as soon as we read her summons, yeah?”

“Most likely.” Tyri’el can’t hide the disappointment in his voice, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. Violet echoes his sigh, moving into the bathroom to get dressed. The clothes Tyri’el procured fit surprisingly well, considering they were made for an elf, and the fine fabric is a welcome change from the coarse clothes she normally wears. Before leaving the bathroom, she opens a drawer on the vanity and retrieves the bottle of oil that reminds her of her mother’s perfume and carefully slips it into her pocket. They leave their room together with what little they’d had with them when they’d arrived the night before, and they travel through the labyrinthine hallways of Sunfury Spire until they reach the ground floor. Tyri’el has a short conversation with one of the Spire guards, asking him to thank Lor’themar for his hospitality and apologize for their sudden departure, and they move to the back of the spire to the small chamber containing a glowing orb set on a gilded pedestal. Violet takes his hand in hers and squeezes it with a small smile, and they touch the orb together.

Silvermoon’s fresh, almost fragrant air fades as the magic around them disperses, replaced by the stale, mildew-ridden air of the Undercity. Unlike travel via portal, the translocation orb reminds Violet of being yanked roughly froward by a strong hand rather than stepping through a doorway. It doesn’t affect Tyri’el as much, though it still takes a moment for him to reorient himself once they emerge into the courtyard within the ruins of Capital City. Almost immediately, the prickling sensation on the back of their necks rises, and a banshee materializes before them.

“My queen expects your reports presently,” she says, looking them over.

“We’ll make for the throne room at once,” Violet says, skin crawling at the spectral elf’s voice and the warmth-stealing aura around her. The banshee grins and disappears, and Violet lets out a sigh through a wrinkled nose. “The smell only gets worse after being away for so long, it seems.”

“I can’t imagine,” Tyri’el says, wondering how much worse the city must smell to her heightened senses. They move from the small area around the orb into the main courtyard, now lit with hazy light from the late afternoon sun. It’s a few hours earlier in Tirisfal compared to Quel’Thalas, nearing seven or eight o’clock, but the long summer evenings allow more light as they move towards the remains of the keep. The ever-burning candles atop Terenas’s memorial flicker in the dim ambiance of the inner chamber, and Violet pauses to pull a small white flower from where she’d carefully tucked the stem into under her belt. It’s one from the window boxes outside their room, Tyri’el notices, watching silently as she places it atop the polished marble sarcophagus. The pristine petals begin to wilt in the dank air, and Violet sighs, murmuring a short prayer to the Light for her former king.

“Such a waste,” she says, casting pale eyes around the room with a curled lip. Shaking her head, she moves towards one of the ramps leading down to the lift. “This place was beautiful, once. Filled with light and hope, not angry ghosts.”

Tyri’el says nothing, following her past the pair of hulking abominations that guard the doorway and stepping out onto the lift, wishing he could reach out to offer comfort. Instead, they descend in silence, Violet holding in a gag at the wave of acrid air that greets them at the bottom. Gritting her teeth and willing her stomach to calm, she moves through the Trade Quarter and into the outer ring of the city, Tyri’el following close enough behind. He nods in greeting to those who call out in passing, while Violet remains silent and pointedly ignores everyone around her. They reach the Royal Quarter in a few minutes, descending towards the throne room, where they find the throne empty. Only Varimathras is present on the dais, and its somber scowl melts into a sinister grin when it sees Violet.

“The lost girl returns to her lost city,” it says, wings flexing absently behind it. “The Dark Lady awaits her favored pet in her study.”

Violet walks past the dreadlord without acknowledging it, and it chuckles in response, turning its burning gaze to Tyri’el as he passes.

“I smell her on you, little prince,” it drawls through pointed teeth. “Pray she does not take his path with you in tow.”

“Cryptic bastard,” Violet grumbles as Tyri’el meets her beside the hidden door.

“Nathrezim enjoy toying with people,” he replies as the wall slides shut behind them. “However infuriatingly vague they may choose to be, there’s usually a grain of truth in their riddles.”

“I doubt I’m actually Sylvanas’s favorite lackey.”

“It warned me on the day I brought you here that a chained wolf still has teeth.”

Violet’s steps falter, and she turns to look back at him in the harsh light of a nearby torch.

“How could it—”

Tyri’el shakes his head, warning her silently with a hard look. Violet sighs, quieting herself as she resumes her brisk pace down the hallway. She thinks back to that day, and through the haze surrounding the memory of her first encounter with the Banshee Queen, she remembers the tang of her own blood filling the air. Does the curse taint the scent of her blood that noticeably? The thought has never occurred to her, but to a normal person’s senses, blood is just blood. It might explain the reactions of animals she comes in contact with, but even then, she has no way of knowing if her scent is any different than it was before she was bitten. Cursing the dreadlord under her breath, she knocks shortly on the door to Sylvanas’s study, waiting a few seconds for the call to enter.

“I expected the pair of you back earlier than this,” the queen says, not looking up from the papers on her desk as they file into the room before the door slams itself shut. “I trust whatever diversions you found were worth keeping me waiting.”

“There were complications to our mission, my lady,” Violet says, and a hint of a smile touches the queen’s lips before she sets her quill in its rest and looks up at them.

“So I have heard.” Sylvanas’s crimson gaze flicks from Violet to Tyri’el. “I am glad to see you remain unchanged by your skirmish with the naga, Tyri’el. Your uncle was quite concerned with your well-being after the events at Tempest Keep.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Tyri’el says, tamping down on the flare of rage stirred by validation of his suspicions that his uncle had informed Sylvanas of his heritage before revealing it to him. He can only guess at how long she’s known, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it at the moment.

“He also passed along your message about the second death of Kael’thas.” Her steeled gaze softens, and her long ears droop the tiniest bit as her shoulders sag. “I am sorry you were forced to take such a task into your own hands.”

“As am I.”

Sylvanas meets his eyes, nodding more to herself than to him, and her mask of cool detachment returns.

“As I’ve found Margaux to be a satisfactory temporary replacement for my Royal Scribe, I want you to take some time for yourself to properly grieve the prince’s death.” Sylvanas returns to her work, picking up her quill and dipping it in a pot of ink. “Take what time you need, but I expect you to return to the Undercity as quickly as you can manage.”

“I…are you certain, my lady?”

“I cannot have you distracted from your work. As you should well know by now, I do not tolerate careless mistakes.” The queen glances up at Violet, who is sharing a questioning look with Tyri’el. “Take the girl with you.”

“My lady?” Violet looks incredulously to the queen, her eyes wide for a split second before she forcefully calms her expression.

“I have eyes and ears everywhere, girl. Your little…whatever this is that the two of you have cultivated, while unsatisfactory to some, is of little concern to me at the moment. I have much larger things to worry about than who you share your bed with.” Sylvanas pauses, intent on her work, and the silence seems to stretch on forever as Tyri’el and Violet exchange a worried glance. “You are dismissed, Tyri’el.”

Tyri’el hesitates, and Sylvanas glances up at him, waving her hand towards the door.

“Leave. I will return your lover to you as soon as she is debriefed.”

“As you wish,” Tyri’el says, sharing one last worried look with Violet, who can only lift her shoulders in a barely-noticeable shrug. He moves to the door, lingering there for a long moment before leaving the room.

“You failed me, girl,” Sylvanas says, a low growl in her voice. She abandons her work, standing from her desk to slink around it and circle Violet like a lynx waiting to pounce. “I ordered you to end Kael’thas, and what do my scouts report back to me? You were inside Tempest Keep, but the prince fell to men under the banner of the Alliance.”

“I…” Violet begins to argue, to explain what had happened, but with the amount the queen seems to already know, she thinks better of it. “Forgive me, my lady.”

“And this.” Sylvanas reaches out and grabs her wrist, squeezing it with her talon-like gauntleted hand. “How dare you think you to break my spell so you can roam unchecked. You belong to me.”

“Spell?” Violet asks, struggling to keep the pain in her wrist from seeping into her voice. “My lady, I’ve done nothing to evade you, I swear it.”

They glare at each other, and Sylvanas lets out a short growl before dropping her wrist.

“Without my Ambassador here, I can’t re-brand you. But know this, girl.” Sylvanas leans in, her nose nearly brushing against the human’s, and inside Violet’s head, her other self snarls with hackles raised. “I own you, and you will be watched, make no mistake of it.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Get out. And Belore help me, if he’s injured again while under your watch…you will wish for the mercy of death.”

Violet leaves the study without another word, meeting Tyri’el outside in the hallway.

“Well?” He asks, looking her up and down to find her apparently unscathed.

“If I didn’t know better,” Violet begins, shaking her head as they walk, “I would think she was being…nice.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he admits, running his hand through his hair.

“It’s as if she still has a heart somewhere in there.”

“She does. It appears…infrequently, but—” Tyri’el halts his words as they emerge into the throne room under the watchful gaze of the dreadlord. They leave quickly, and Violet shudders once they’re out of its line of sight.

“Why does it…smile at me like that?” Before he can answer her, she waves her hand dismissively. “Nevermind. Let’s just get out of this damned place.”

“I have my hearthstone tuned to my mother’s house in Shattrath,” he offers, watching her lip curl back in thinly-veiled disgust at the city around them. “Or, we could return to Silvermoon.”

“Actually,” Violet says, an idea dawning on her as she thinks on the best place to go with their sudden freedom, “there’s something I need to take care of now that we’re back on Azeroth.”

“Oh?”

“I really should check in with my family…that is, with Ravenholdt.” Her face falls. “I’ve neglected them of late.”

“I can bring us wherever you need to go.”

“You can’t come with me.”

“Not to their headquarters, no, but—”

“No farther than here, Tyri’el. I need to do this without you.”

Tyri’el frowns, but her look of determination doesn’t falter, so he sighs and nods.

“Take this,” he says, reaching into his bag to hand her his hearthstone. He pulls her close with his hand on the back of her neck and rests his forehead against hers. “Come back to me.”

“Always,” she replies with a gentle smile bordering on mischievous. “I’ll meet you in Shattrath tomorrow.”

“Be careful,” Tyri’el says, kissing her desperately like she might evaporate in his arms.

“Always,” she repeats, disappearing in the next second. She stays near him as he moves from the Royal Quarter to the Magic Quarter, and waits for him to take a portal to the Outlands before fading into sight beside the portal master.

“Where to?” The Forsaken man says, looking as sleepy as an undead possibly can.

“Tarren Mill,” Violet replies, handing him a gold piece she’d swiped off an adventurer on her way here. The mage nods with a noncommittal grunt , fussing with an array of crystals before lifting his arms to power them. A small settlement appears on the other side of the summoned portal, and she thanks him before stepping through. As soon as she’s out in the misty air of Hillsbrad, she pulls up the hood on her cloak and slips into the shadows. She travels northward along the riverbank in the failing light of the oncoming sunset, the familiar hills passing in a blur as she runs. It’s nearly dark by the time she reaches the silhouette of a gnarled old tree nestled against a steep hillside, and she kneels between two twisting roots and brushes aside the leaves and debris until she finds a flat stone set into the damp earth. She places her palm against it and presses, the air around her filled with the sound of turning gears and scraping metal before the roots part farther to reveal a passageway leading beneath the tree.

Violet descends into the passageway and the entrance slides shuts behind her as she travels along the earthen path lit by everburning torches placed every twenty paces. It winds on for nearly a mile before a set of stairs appears in the gloom at the very end, and she ascends them, pushing on the trapdoor at the top to emerge into a small tool shed. It’s quiet outside the shed as she pauses to listen, and she gently eases down the trapdoor and exits the shed. Before her is a magnificent manor house surrounded by a lush spread of land nestled in a small valley high in the mountains. The leaded glass windows are alight with a warm glow from within, and her sensitive ears pick up the sounds of laughter and cheer as she approaches the manor. With her hood pulled down to show her face, the sentries patrolling the grounds - some visible and others stealthed - pay her no mind as she enters the courtyard, exchanging a nod with the guards at the door. Her hand pauses on the door handle and she takes a deep breath as she pushes it open.

All eyes are on Violet as she enters the manor, and the curious gazes of the other Ravens linger for a moment longer than it takes them to recognize her, but conversation starts up again and her presence is nearly forgotten. She takes comfort in the familiar faces around the large common room, but an ache starts in her chest as she moves through the space towards the stairs on the far side of the manor.

“Sight fer sore eyes, ye are, lass.”

Violet pauses, taking a steadying breath before turning around. Redpike closes the distance between them and pats her arm, smiling up at her.

“But I knew ye’d come back. This is where ye belong.”

“Where’s the Lord?” Violet asks, unable to meet the dwarf’s eyes.

“Up in his study. He’ll be glad ta see ye.”

“Thank you, Redpike,” Violet replies softly, turning to move up the stairs without looking back. She moves through the familiar hallways towards the center of the manor, follow the spiraling staircase to the one door at the very top. Hesitating, she knocks, and a moment later, she hears the call to enter. Inside the room, behind a large desk, is a human whose hair is nearly as pale as the moon framed behind him outside the continuous windows that wrap around the circular space. There’s another human across the desk from him, his hair more of a mousy blond, and he rises from his chair and looks her over.

“Moonflower,” he says, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Glad to see you’ve returned.”

“Thank you, Grand Master,” Violet replies. “I would wish to speak with the Lord alone.”

“We were in the midst of—”

“It’s quite all right, Fahrad. We will finish this discussion later,” Lord Ravenholdt says, and Fahrad grunts softly.

“As you wish, my lord,” he says, casting a hard look at Violet as he passes her and leaves the room. Lord Ravenholdt turns his attention to Violet, his eyes kind despite the hard lines of his face.

“I’m glad to see you here, Moonflower. I was quite concerned for your safety when I learned of what had happened to Starblade. We all were.” He rises from his chair, straightening a stack of papers before coming around the desk. “Redpike put some of my fears to rest, but I’ll admit, some concern still lingers.”

“Concern, sir?”

“You know outside relationships are forbidden.”

“I do, sir.”

“Then I trust you’ve taken care of these ties and are ready for your next assignment.”

“No, sir,” Violet says, measuring her words carefully. “I’ve come to give you my wings.”

“That is not a statement made lightly.” Lord Ravenholdt crosses his arms over his chest. “And not something you can come back from.”

“I’m aware of the implications, sir.”

“You’re an exceptional agent, with innate talents I cannot replace.” His eyes are hard, but Violet forces herself to meet them. “What can I do to dissuade you from this?”

“Nothing, sir. I’ve made up my mind.” Violet falters, looking down and away. “I care too much for the family to put them in any further danger.”

“And we care for you greatly in return. You know we are bound by blood, and any one of us would risk our lives for you, as you said you would in the oath you took.” He approaches her but keeps a few feet between them. “Can you say for certain that this elf will give the same for you?”

“Without question.”

Lord Ravenholdt sighs and strokes his goatee, deep in thought.

“Do you think this is what Starblade would have wanted for you?”

“She would have wanted me to find happiness.” Violet again meets his eyes. “She gave her life for mine, and I won’t waste that sacrifice.”

“You see the League as a waste, then?” A flicker of anger crosses his normally controlled expression. “The last two years of your life? Your training? The blood and pain and triumph? All for nothing?”

“No, sir. Quite the opposite. The last two years have been some of the best of my life, but…” Violet closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, there’s a stubborn conviction held in them. “This is what I need now, sir. I can’t give you any better plea than that.”

“You are walking away from your family.”

“Yes.”

“I will ask you only once more, Moonflower.” Lord Ravenholdt closes the distance between them and looks down at her. “Do you know what you are asking?”

“I do, sir.”

He exhales through his nose and holds her gaze a moment longer before returning to his desk. From a drawer he produces a dagger, its hilt shaped like a screaming raven with ruby eyes. He unsheathes it in one fluid motion, the razor-sharp blade glinting in the flickering flames form the hearth, and comes around the desk again.

“A witness is required.”

“I’d like it to be Redpike, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Very well.” He moves to the door and disappears, leaving Violet to let out a long breath. Her mind has been made up for some time now, but the sharp reality of this moment still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. This place, these people, took her in when she was nothing more than a scared girl fresh from the horror of losing her family. They’d raised her, trained her, loved her. For a moment, she questions her decision, but she knows in the pit of her stomach that this is the way it has to be. This is worth it, she tells herself. _He_ is worth it.

Footsteps catch her ear and she turns, watching Lord Ravenholdt return with Redpike trailing close behind.

“Lass,” she says, eyes wide in hurt and shock. “Ye can’t really be meanin’ ta do this.”

“I have to.”

“Ye dinnae what yer doin’. We’re yer family.” Redpike takes her hands in hers, pleading with her eyes as she looks up at her. “No pretty face is worth forsakin’ yer own.”

“I’m sorry, Redpike,” Violet says, pulling her hands out of her grasp. Redpike’s shoulders fall and she closes her eyes, clearly fighting back tears.

“Don’t do this, lass. Please.”

“I’m ready, sir.”

Lord Ravenholdt shuts the door and moves to stand before the hearth, the light of the fire throwing harsh light across his face.

“Lass…”

“Give me your arm, agent.” He gestures for her to come forward. She comes to stand before him, instead holding out her hand.

“With all due respect, sir, I’d like to do it myself.”

“As you wish.”

Lord Ravenholdt hands her the dagger and she takes it, rolling up her sleeve to expose the tattoo on her inner arm, just below her armpit. The dark ink catches the light reflected by the dagger, and Violet sets her jaw and presses the blade to the skin. Blood wells as she slices the skin, trailing down her arm to drip onto the bare wooden floor.

“Light save ye,” Redpike whispers, watching as Violet cuts the tattoo clean off without so much as blinking as she keeps her eyes locked with Lord Ravenholdt’s. She tosses the flayed skin into the fire, letting her arm fall to her side as she holds the dagger out to the human before her.

“Redpike,” he says, taking the blade. “The draught.”

“I’m gonna miss ye, lass.” The dwarf speaks barely above a whisper and hands her master as small vial of clear liquid that he turns over in his fingers to catch the light.

“You are as good as dead to us, Violet,” he says, sadness mixed into the hard strain in his voice. He nods at Redpike and she moves to the door, opening it with eyes rimmed with moisture.

“We’re ready,” she says, opening the door wider. A gnome walks in, her dark hair pulled into pigtails just barely hidden by the cowl of her robe. Violet’s eyes widen as she sets eyes on the priest, taking an instinctive step backward.

“Sir, I—”

“You know too much to simply turn loose into the world.” Lord Ravenholdt holds out the vial. “This is your last sacrifice for us.”

“You won’t feel a thing, I promise,” the gnome says, the same solemn sadness in her deep blue eyes. Violet looks from her to Redpike, who only shakes her head, and takes the vial with a hand she can barely keep from shaking. Her arm still hangs at her side, the pain from the dripping gash radiating up it like fire, but she takes the vial with her free hand and pops the cork. A hesitant sniff reveals it as an opiate sedative, and the memory of Beleron serving her drugged tea flashes in her mind to set her heart racing. Steadying herself, she takes a deep breath and downs it in one go. It takes only seconds for the world to spin and fade to black.

“Easy,” Redpike says, catching her before she hits the floor and easing her limp body down. “Damn foolish child.”

“Did you know she was planning to defect?” Lord Ravenholdt asks, standing over them as the gnome trots over to press glowing hands to the wound on Violet’s arm.

“Nay, sir. I knew she’d caught a feelin’ fer that fancy elf boy, but…I dinnae think she would take it this far.”

“Such a waste,” the human says, watching the gnome work. “I may never find another of her kind to take into my fold.”

The gnome stops the bleeding on Violet’s arm and wraps the tender wound with a bandage before sitting up on her knees and looking to her master.

“Proceed,” he says, and she nods, moving to kneel near Violet’s head with her palms cradling the human’s temples. She closes her eyes, and the shadows cast by the fire begin to warp and twist as tendrils of dark energy bore into Violet’s head. Redpike turns her head away, but Lord Ravenholdt watches the priest work. “Destroy every memory of the Assassin’s League. Every location, every codename, every face. Nothing of us can leave with her.”

“Of course,” the gnome says, a sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead as she expertly navigates Violet’s unconscious mind. The shadow growing from her fingertips writhes an curls like the tentacles of some deepsea beast, licking greedily to steal every memory of her time in Ravenholdt. “What about Starblade, sir?”

Lord Ravenholdt pauses, exchanging a sideways glance with Redpike.

“Erase any sensitive information, but leave her with the memories of her sister.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few more minutes pass, only marked by the clock on the mantle and the slow rise and fall of Violet’s chest.

“No pain, yeah?” Redpike asks when the shadows recede and the gnome opens her eyes. “No damage ta the rest o’ her?

“She’ll be a bit confused, but once the sedative wears off, she won’t remember a thing.”

“You’re dismissed, Lightspark. Thank you.”

The gnome bows and exits the room, leaving Redpike and Lord Ravenholdt to stare down at Violet.

“What now?” Redpike asks, kneeling to check her pulse.

“Check her bag. See if she has a hearthstone.”

“Here,” Redpike says, finding the one Tyri’el had left her with.

“Leave her somewhere safe, and return to the manor.” Lord Ravenholdt sighs, running a hand down his face. “Make it known that she’s on the black list now.”

“Aye, sir.” Redpike lifts Violet’s limp hand and presses the hearthstone into it, taking a breath before activating it. When the pressure subsides, she finds herself on the doorstep of the house she knows to belong to Headmistress Dawnheart in Shattrath. She smooths at Violet’s hair, looking down at her with the fondness a mother might show for her child. “Light above, lass. I’m going ta miss ye.”

Redpike pulls her own hearthstone from her belt pack, holding it tight in her fist as she stands, and casts one last look at the prone human on the ground before her.

“Fer yer own heart’s sake, lass, I hope he’s worth it.”


	46. Blank Spaces

With the number of people who joined the Shattered Sun Offensive from both factions, Shattrath is noticeably emptier as Tyri’el emerges from the portal just inside the city’s east gate. He sighs, thinking he should have been more specific with the portal master, but it’s a lovely day in Terokkar, so he doesn’t much mind the extra walk. The peacekeepers astride their elekks pay him no mind as he passes, and he takes the time to process his thoughts.

The familiar unease of being away so far away from Violet settles into his gut, and though he tells himself she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, he can’t help but worry for her. Elves are just as mortal as humans, just as weak to a blade or disease, but he can’t help but feel that her life is somehow much more fragile than his. She’s so ruled by her emotions, so fueled by rage and grief that she has little regard for her life, and he’s overcome by a sudden urge to find her and hide her away like a priceless treasure. He wants to protect her, but as he thinks on it, he knows she doesn’t need protection from anything but herself, and to be taught the value of her own life.

Tyri’el sighs, stopping at the lift to the Scryer’s Tier and waiting for it to descend before stepping on it. The rush of air against his skin is refreshing, and the afternoon sunshine is a nice change from the gloom of the Undercity. As he steps off the lift, he sees that the tier is similarly empty of a great deal of its usual occupants, knowing that most able-bodied sin’dorei in residence left for Quel’Danas as soon as the strike team established the portal. Still, there’s the usual midday market rush, if on a smaller scale today, and he greets passerby with a more genuine smile than he’s had to offer in quite some time. It’s heartening to see the resilience of his people, even though so few remain. They’ve been through so much, but still they persist.

Ducking into the stable, Tyri’el notes how many stalls are empty of their normal occupants, now only housing a few hawkstriders that chirp in curiosity as he passes. At the very back of the stable, curled up in the back corner with her tail over her snout, is Hala. She opens one golden eye at the sound of his approach, springing to her feet a second later with her tail wagging with enough force that stray bits of straw bedding stir up in a tiny storm around her. The force of her enthusiasm is a testament to the construction of the stall’s door, which doesn’t hardly budge despite her pushing against it with all her might in an attempt to rush to him.

“Missed me, did you?” Tyri’el asks, reaching out to scratch at her muzzle with both hands, and barely dodges a swipe of her massive tongue. She sniffs him diligently, then looks over his shoulder with ears perked, letting out a disappointed huff when she sees that he’s alone. “Your mistress will be along tomorrow.”

“Oh, good afternoon, Margrave. I didn’t hear you come by.” A silver-haired elf peeks out from one of the stalls across the stable, smoothing at her clothes after she drops her armload of straw back into the wheelbarrow beside her.

“Good afternoon, Ithele. Has Hala behaved herself for you?” Tyri’el pats the worg’s neck, and she huffs in response and sits back on her hind legs.

“She’s been very good, haven’t you, sweet girl?” Ithele smiles as she approaches, and Hala wags her tail at the praise. “I didn’t realize she was yours. Father said she belonged to the human who fought off a fel reaver to bring supplies to Falcon Watch.”

“She isn’t mine, no. I’m only checking on her while her mistress is away.” He smiles at the other elf, who blushes and returns it shyly. “What’s owed for her boarding? I’ll take care of whatever bill there is.”

“Oh, she’s here free of charge, on father’s insistence. My sister lives at Falcon Watch, and that human girl risked her life to get those supplies through.” Ithele reaches into the pocket of her smock and pulls out a piece of dried meat. Hala springs to her feet, taking the treat gently between her massive teeth and scarfing it down without chewing. “Is it true what people are saying? That she fought off the fel reaver with her bare hands and sent it fleeing back to the Legion camp?”

“No, nothing nearly that fantastical,” Tyri’el says, shaking his head and chuckling despite the sick clenching in his chest at the thought of Violet, bloody and unconscious between Mavros’s back talons. “She was nearly killed, and she certainly didn’t fight it.”

“Oh,” Ithele says softly, clearly disappointed. “Thank her for me, will you?”

“Of course,” Tyri’el replies, flashing her a smile that unintentionally brings the flush back to her cheeks. He looks to Hala, and gives her muzzle one last scratch. “I’ll be back to take you for a ride later this evening, deal?”

A small, exited yip is Hala’s response, and Tyri’el laughs, turning back to the elf who is watching him nearly as intently as Hala is eyeing her hands where they rest in the pockets of her smock.

“I’ll see you later this evening,” he says, bowing at the waist.

“I…ah, yes. Later, then.” Ithele bows in return and returns to her chores, watching Tyri’el closely as he leaves. Once out of the stable, Tyri’el shakes his head with a small smile. The thought of Violet fighting a fel reaver is both ridiculous and terrifying, but he supposes that it’s good they’re spinning such wild tales of her heroism. It’s better than most reactions she’s recieved from his people so far.

As he makes his way towards his mother’s house, he passes the inscription shop and goes in, reasoning that he has some time to spare until he can meet Senna at the schoolhouse at the end of her day in class. This shop, however, is also home to a rather extensive collection of books, and before he knows it, the clock in the main square is chiming to let him know he’s lost almost two hours with his browsing. He hurriedly pays for the stack of tomes he’s collected and leaves the shop, moving across the tier to the side-avenue that contains his mother’s house. It’s well past the time Senna would have left class, and he hopes he isn’t late for dinner, a thought that elicits a dry smile at how juvenile it seems.

The small courtyard outside the house is empty, and he stops short when he looks down at the stoop as he steps up onto it. There, on the pale stone, is the unmistakable crimson of a smear of fresh blood. It’s still tacky as he leans down to touch his fingertips to the stone, and he quietly sets down his books and readies himself for whatever he might find behind the door. Nothing else around him is out of place, and he carefully turns the door handle and opens the door without a sound. The foyer is empty, as are the living room and kitchen as he check them, watching his step for any more blood, but he finds none. Something stirs at the top of the stairs, and he tenses, the beginnings of his spell fizzling out when he sees a familiar outline.

“Where’s your master?” Tyri’el asks the lynx as it stretches its front paws in a greeting bow and yawns wide before trotting down the stairs. The beast curls around his feet, arching into his touch as he scratches its head as he looks around. “I suppose there would be more blood if you’d gotten your claws into an intruder, hm?”

A soft grumble is the lynx’s reply, and it slinks away and into the living room to curl up in front of the hearth, now lit only with coals. A quick check of the rest of the house proves fruitless, and Tyri’el’s worry continues to grow when he finds nothing out of place anywhere. Surely Senna and his mother would be home by now, and the fact that Soven’s companion is here without her master only adds to the strangeness of the situation. He returns to the ground floor, ready to start questioning neighbors, when the front door opens.

“Oh, sundrop, thank Belore you came.” His mother pulls him into a hug, his niece coming in right behind her.

“I saw blood,” he says as Senna buries her face in his shirt, eyes red and puffy. “What’s going on?”

“Grandmother and I came home from school and…”

“Violet was injured,” Keldra says, smoothing at her granddaughter’s hair when she starts to sob into her uncle’s chest. Tyri’el stills, eyes wide.

“What? Where is she?”

“Down at the clinic, with your…with Soven. He has refused to leave her side since we found her.”

“Found her? What happened?” Tyri’el pries Senna off of him, and she moves to cling to her grandmother.

“She was poisoned,” Senna says, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “She’s really sick.”

“Poisoned?” The room around him starts to shift as adrenaline floods his system. Violet had told him she was going to Ravenholdt. Why would they poison one of their own? Or perhaps she never made it there. The possibilities playing out in his mind are dizzying, and he feels his grip on reality falter before his mother speaks.

“Not poisoned, dear.” Keldra holds in a small sigh, brushing the hair from Senna’s wet cheeks with a kind smile. “She is going to be just fine. Go on and wash your face. I will be up in a minute to help you with your school work.”

“Promise she’ll get better?” Senna asks, looking up at her grandmother.

“You heard what the priest said. She will be sleepy, and then be good as new.” She motions to the stairs with a nod of her head. “Go on, dear.”

Senna looks between them uneasily, taking a few steps backwards before turning and dashing up the stairs.

“What happened?” Tyri’el repeats, taking his mother by the shoulders.

“As best anyone can tell, she was drugged. We found her unconscious and sprawled out on the front stoop with a hearthstone in her hand.”

“What about the blood?”

“There was a bandage on her upper arm, but the rest of it was covered in blood.”

“What did they say? What’s her condition?”

“Easy, sundrop,” Keldra says, touching her son’s arm as he runs a hand through his hair, trying to wrap his head around the information. “The priest said she should be awake in a few hours.”

“Should be? Should be isn’t good enough!” Voice raised in both volume and pitch, Tyri’el shrugs out of his mother’s grasp and moves to the door. He’s outside and across the courtyard before Keldra can say anything else, and he makes it across the tier to the clinic in record time. Once inside, he scans the small space, eyes landing on Soven where he’s seated beside a bed against the far wall. The older elf looks pensive, hunched over with one elbow resting on his knee to support his head, the other wrapped around Violet’s wrist to keep track of her pulse. Tyri’el rushes over, finding Violet still and pale against the bedsheets. “Is she all right?”

“She will be,” Soven says, looking up at Tyri’el as he nearly collapses onto the bed beside Violet. He withdraws his hand from her wrist and drags it across his face before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“This is my fault,” Tyri’el tells the unconscious woman, cursing himself for not insisting on going with her.

“Unlikely,” Soven replies, and Tyri’el glares at him.

“I’m grateful you stayed with her, but—”

“I know. You don’t need me here.” Soven stands, his words curt but not unkind, and casts one last look at Violet. “Send for me if you need help bringing her back to the house.”

“I…will,” Tyri’el replies, the care in the other elf’s tone giving him pause. Soven nods to himself before leaving. Tyri’el watches him go, unused to anything but sharp words from the man he once called his father, and he shakes his head as he turns back to Violet. Her chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, and as he shifts on the bed to sit closer to her, he notices the bandages wrapped around the upper part of her left arm. It’s the exact place he recalls seeing her Ravenholdt tattoo, and his curiosity leads him to try to unwrap the bandages.

“I’d advise against that,” someone says, and Tyri’el jumps, looking over his shoulder to see a young human in priest’s robes approaching them from a back room. He raises an eyebrow in question. “You’re close, I take it?”

“We…yes,” Tyri’el says, unsure of why the young man’s statement grates at him. “What can you tell me about what happened to her?”

“I can’t know for sure until she wakes up, but I’m fairly certain she was drugged with a minor dose of some kind of sedative.”

“And her arm?”

“A piece of skin was sliced off, but it was bandaged when she was brought in. It had been healed recently, as well.”

“Nothing else was harmed?” Tyri’el looks Violet over, seeing no outward signs of a struggle.

“Physically, not that I was able to find. However…”

“However?” There it is again, that annoyance stirring in his gut. Tyri’el tamps down on it, looking up as the human approaches the bed.

“Whoever drugged her also used shadow magic to invade her mind.”

“What?” A stronger flare of anger rises in his chest, and the hand not twined with Violet’s clenches the sheet beneath him in a tight fist. “What did they do to her?”

“Manipulate memories, as far as I can tell. Again, I won’t know until she wakes up.”

“And when will that be?”

“Anywhere between a few minutes and a few hours. I don’t know exactly what she was given or how m—”

“Thank you. That will be all,” Tyri’el says, the clenching of his jaw straining his words. The priest pauses, hesitant, and nods before moving away and into the back room again. Tyri’el watches him go, only turning around again when he’s out of sight. He brushes his knuckles over Violet’s cheek, lowering his voice to barely above a whisper. “Who did this to you?”

It’s well past dark when Violet’s eyelids flutter, and she groans when the soft glow of a nearby lamp sends shockwaves of pain through her head. Her whole body feels heavy, and her head feels like it’s caught in a vice, the pressure radiating down her neck and into her shoulders and chest. Eyes closed against the light, she catches a familiar scent, matching it to the gentle weight beside her.

“Tyri’el?” She asks, voice hoarse from a mouth that feels like it’s full of sand.

“I’m here,” Tyri’el replies, his voice very near to her head. She cracks open one eye, finding that he’s laid out on the bed next to her, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her.

“Lamp,” she says with another groan. “S’too bright. M’ head.”

Tyri’el sits up, putting himself between her and the lamp on the bedside table to block the soft light that may as well be daggers driven through her skull.

“Better?”

“Mhm.”

“How are you feeling?”

“C’fused.” Frowning at the way her mouth doesn’t seem to want to work, Violet tries to sit up, but a wave of vertigo forces her back against the mattress with a small, distressed whine. “Wh…”

“Here.” Tyri’el helps her to sit up, and she leans hard against his chest, accepting a drink of water from the glass he carefully hold to her lips.

“What…where am I?” Her words come slow, aided by the water but coming from a mind that’s still blurry around the edges.

“Shattrath,” Tyri’el replies, helping her with another drink when she realizes how thirsty she is.

“How’d I get here?”

“The hearthstone I gave you.” Once the glass is empty, Tyri’el sets it on the floor beside the bed and cradles her head where it rests against him. “Do you remember using it?”

“No.”

“Do you remember where you went?”

“Undercity,” Violet says, seeing Sylvanas and the bright, putrid green of the city’s canals very clearly in her mind’s eye. “You were there.”

“After that?”

“No.” She can recall watching Tyri’el take a portal, but everything after that fades into a dark mist at the edge of nothing but blank space. Trying to recall anything past that rewards her with a jolt of pain straight through the middle of her skull, and she whimpers as she clutches at her head. Tyri’el’s arms tighten around her, and he wishes that he knew how to soothe her pain even a little bit.

“Nothing at all?”

“No.” Her mind is still sluggish as it shakes off whatever is dulling it, but panic starts to creep up the back of her neck at the raw feeling somehow living inside her thoughts. “I’m frightened.”

“Don’t be,” Tyri’el murmurs, pressing his lips to her temple. “We’ll sort this all out.”

“Someone’s been in my head,” she says, finally likening the strange sensation in her mind to the night Beleron drugged her and rooted around in her memories.

“Do you remember who?”

“No.”

“Ah, awake at last.” A human, no more than a few years her senior, approaches the bed, his head inclined in polite curiosity. His eyes are kind and the faint hum of the Light surrounds him, for her marking him as a priest more than his robes do. Violet immediately tenses, trying to scoot away from him despite her weakened state. In the back of her mind, muted and drowsy, comes a snarl as her other self raises her hackles.

“Did you try to—”

“It wasn’t him,” Tyri’el says, stilling her with a gentle hand. “He’s been looking after you since you got here.”

“I don’t court the shadow,” the human says, a trace of hurt in his eyes at her unspoken accusation. Violet still eyes him with suspicion but relaxes back into Tyri’el. The priest hesitates, staying where he is but lifting a hand to point to her. “Will you let me look at your arm?”

“What for?” Violet lifts her arm, only now noticing the bandage wrapped around her bicep. Once again, her memory provides absolutely nothing to explain such an injury. “I…suppose.”

The human approaches with his hands held up before him to show he means no harm, and though the beast in her head is wary, it falls silent as he sits on the bed opposite Tyri’el. His touch is gentle, and he unwraps the bandages to reveal an angry red patch of skin, not bleeding but very close to it. His hands glow with golden light and the warm, soothing flow of Light eases the pain lingering there.

“Can you tell me anything about what happened to you?” The priest watches her from the corner of his eye as he continues to work on her arm. Violet blinks, trying to recall something, anything, but there’s nothing but a dark hole in her memories after she watched Tyri’el step through a portal.

“I can’t remember,” she says, tears springing to her eyes. “Light, I can’t _remember_.”

“Easy,” Tyri’el says, steadying her as she begins to tremble. The Light fades from the priest’s hands and he reaches into a pocket on his robe to pull out a fresh roll of bandages. Watching him begin to wrap Violet’s arm, Tyri’el speaks again. “Will the memories ever return?”

“It’s unlikely, if they’ve been purposely removed with shadow magic,” the priest says, a hint of a frown touching his lips. Violet watches him work, her mind starting to return to a normal level of function. She hisses as her arm twinges under his expert touch. “Forgive me. It’s still quite tender.”

“You’re from Lordaeron,” Violet says, finally recognizing the familiar lilt in his accent.

“Andorhal,” he replies, nodding with his mouth pressed into a grim line. “Got out just before everything went straight to hell.”

Violet puts her hand on his arm, sharing a knowing look of sympathy with him. Tyri’el bristles, a small clenching starting in his chest. Violet feels him tense behind her and pulls back her hand, placing it over his where it rests on her knee.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much more I can do for you right now,” the other human says, apology showing in his eyes. “The sedative should continue to wear off over the next few hours.”

“Thank you,” Violet says quietly, and he offers a small, kind smile in return.

“Think you can stand?” Tyri’el asks, and Violet nods. He helps her to the edge of the bed and stands, unconsciously putting himself between her and the priest as he, too, stands from the bed. He pulls her boots out from under the bed and hands them to her.

“A moment, if you would?” The priest gestures with his head to the other side of the room, and Tyri’el follows, reluctant to leave Violet for even a moment. Once they’re out of earshot - that is, once the human thinks they’re far enough away that Violet can’t hear them - he lowers his voice and moves closer. “Keep a close watch on her. If she acts out of character or becomes disoriented, bring her back immediately.”

“I thought you said she would recover.” Tyri’el’s fists clench at his sides, and it must show in his face because the priest takes a step backwards.

“I believe she will, but I can’t be sure that it was only her memories that were tampered with. Delving into the mind by way of shadow magic can get messy if done improperly or with malicious intent.” He glances over at Violet, who make no indication that she can hear every word spoken between them. “I sense no lingering shadow, but there could be side effects going forward.”

“Such as?”

“Namely confusion, but—”

“Is she in danger?”

“It’s hard to say, based on—”

“Yes or no?”

The priest pauses, taken aback by his suddenly cold demeanor.

“Likely not. Just keep an eye on her.”

“Believe me, I will.” With that, Tyri’el moves back to Violet and holds out his hands to her. She takes them and he helps her stand, steadying her as she sways.

“Thank you for your help,” Violet says, giving him a small smile.

“Of course,” the priest replies, returning the smile. “Light go with you.”

Once out of the clinic and into the bracing night air, Violet and Tyri’el move down the street, walking slowly in silence for a few moments. They pass a bench and Violet pulls Tyri’el with her to sit on it, huddling close to his ever-present warmth. She takes in a deep breath and looks up at him.

“Where was I going? I must have told you before you left.”

“You told me you were going to Ravenholdt.”

Violet’s brow furrows, the name foreign to her ears.

“What’s Ravenholdt?”

Tyri’el blinks, one eyebrow piqued.

“They’re a league of highly-skilled rogues.”

“Why would I be going to meet with rogues?”

“You…you are a rogue, Violet. You’re one of them.”

“No, I’m not,” Violet says, once again coming up with nothing but a blank space as she tries to process his words. “I’ve never heard of this Ravenholdt in my life.”

“You’ve been a member for some time now,” Tyri’el says, starting to string together the pieces. Either someone got a hold of Violet on her way to Ravenholdt Manor and erased her memories, or it was the rogues themselves who meddled with her mind. Both possibilities are incredibly unsettling, and Tyri’el finds himself drawing her closer to him. “You told me it was a night elf who found you and brought you there.”

“Thyani.” Violet clearly recalls the dark-haired kaldorei woman, but there are holes in these memories, as well. Laughter and tears, lessons in Darnassian, but nothing about rogues, and certainly nothing about becoming one. She shakes her head. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

“You are a member of Ravenholdt. Or, you were.” He lightly touches the bandages on her arm. “You had their tattoo. A raven in flight.”

Violet reaches up to touch her arm, desperately searching for anything that would make his words make sense, but she’s rewarded only by a persistent headache that pounds with her pulse.

“Why did they take my memories?” She asks, eyes wide and rimmed with tears as she looks up at him. “What did I do to make them…”

“I can’t say,” Tyri’el responds, caught between tears of his own and the budding rage still festering in his chest.

“Will they come after me?”

“I don’t know that, either.” He kisses her gently, pulling back after a moment to wipe away the lone tear trailing down her cheek. “Anyone who tries to hurt you will have to get through me, first.”

Violet leans her head against his chest, listening to his slow breaths and the even rhythm of his heartbeat. They sit like this for a time, and just as Tyri’el begins to ask her if she’s ready to return to his mother’s house, he realizes that she’s fallen asleep again. He stirs her gently, afraid it might be more dire than just the tail-end of the sedative, but he lets her be when she grumbles a nearly unintelligible threat to let her sleep. With a smile, he hoists her into his arms and makes his way back to his mother’s house with her tucked protectively against his chest.

“How is she?” Keldra whispers when she meets her son in the foyer after hearing the front door open.

“Tired and confused.”

“But otherwise unharmed?”

“So far as we could tell.”

“Belore be praised,” Keldra says, hand over her heart in relief.

“I’m going to take her upstairs,” Tyri’el says, and his mother nods.

“Your bed is made. I will bring you some supper in a little while.” Keldra halts her son as he turns towards the stairs. “Be sure to let Senna know everything is well. Poor dear has been in tears all night. She is very fond of Violet.”

“I will.”

“Let your…let him know, as well. Certain death to anyone who suggests it of him, but he has been worried for her, too.”

“I doubt that.”

“He does care for you, sundrop.”

“I doubt that,” Tyri’el repeats, moving to ascend the stairs. A lamp sheds light across his room, and he maneuvers the covers on his bed back so he can set down Violet and pull them up over her. She sighs in her sleep, burrowing into the blankets, and he can’t help but smile as he watches her for a moment before kissing her forehead and leaving the room. A few doors down, he finds Senna on her hands and knees at the foot of her bed, head bowed and hands clasped together in front of her. She’s praying, he realizes after a moment, and he briefly wonders where she learned the distinctly human pose.

“Please make Violet feel better,” Senna says quietly, eyes closed with her brows drawn tight together in determination. “And please make Uncle T not be so sad.”

Tyri’el smiles sadly, trying not to draw parallels on just how much like her father she looks in this moment.

“Please bless ann’da and minn’da. Let them know I miss them and that I did really well on my arithmetic exam.” She finishes the prayer with a quiet murmur in Thalassian, and Tyri’el has to swallow the swell of grief that rises in his chest as she straightens up. Her face lights up when she catches sigh of him in the doorway, but it’s quickly replaced with vivid concern. “Is Violet going to be okay?”

“She is.”

“Can I go say goodnight?”

“She’s sleeping right now, but I’m sure she’ll be very happy to see you when she wakes up tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Senna says, drawing out the word in youthful disappointment. “Will you read me one of the fairy stories from my birthday book?”

“I would love to,” Tyri’el replies, and Senna dashes over to her bookshelf and pulls down the book he’d made for her. He takes it from her and she climbs into bed, settling herself under the blankets with an expectant smile. Tyri’el sits beside her and opens the book, thumbing through the pages. “What would you like to hear?”

“I like the one about the big wolf and the little girl who wears red.”

“Ah, excellent choice.” Tyri’el finds the story about Little Redcloak and begins to read, adding in special voices for each of the characters. By the time the huntsman kills the wolf and saves Little Redcloak and her grandmother, Senna is snoring softly, slumped over sideways against the headboard. Closing the book, Tyri’el eases her down and tucks the covers around her, turning down the lamp to a dim glow, just enough to keep the monsters at bay.

“G’night, Uncle T,” Senna says, blinking sleepily a few times. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says, giving her a soft kiss on the forehead. Closing the door silently behind him, he moves down the hall to the door at the very end. There’s a light on inside, and he knocks softly, waiting for the call to enter.

“How is she?” Soven asks, looking up from his glass of wine in his hand where he’s seated out on the balcony.

“Recovering,” Tyri’el says, standing stiffly before the other elf. Soven nods to himself, taking a sip from his glass. His eyes linger on the dark liquid for a moment before they drag up to look at Tyri’el.

“How long will you be staying?”

“Not long enough to cause you any grief.”

“You are welcome for however long you would like,” Soven says, and Tyri’el has no reply prepared for such a benign answer. He’s come to expect passive-aggressive statements and thinly-veiled disdain, but not this. Soven meets his eyes, something unreadable behind them. “Did you find what you sought on Quel’Danas?”

“More,” Tyri’el admits plainly, and the older elf opens his mouth as if to question his answer, but he shuts it a moment later and returns his gaze to his wine.

“Get some rest,” he says finally, swirling the liquid around the glass. “I pray Violet feels better come morning.”

Tyri’el tries to formulate a response, but nothing comes, so he simply ducks into the house and returns to his room without saying a word. Violet is exactly where he left her, and he steps into the bathroom to splash some water on his face and run a brush through his hair. Violet curls closer against him as he climbs under the covers next to her, smiling with her eyes still closed.

“You’re late, blackbird,” she murmurs. “Missed you.”

Tyri’el looks down at her, seeing her slipping back into a deep sleep, and questions her half-conscious statement. She’s called him that once before, after he’d come to her the night after they’d first visited Quel’Thalas, and he can’t help but wonder if she’s referring to someone else. Perhaps she slips into old habits while on the fringes of sleep? That same clenching starts in his chest, and his father’s words come back to him suddenly, unbidden and unwelcome.

_She will find another, make no mistake about it. Someone else will win her heart, someone she thinks better than you. You will beg and plead and grasp at empty air with wanting fingers, but in the end, you will be left alone._

He thinks about the priest, about the touch and look she’d exchanged with him, and he can’t stop himself from thinking that they had looked good together. Two humans, both from a lost country, both sharing the same dismally short lifespan. He seemed a gentle soul, confident in his abilities. Certainly a better match for her than him.

Tyri’el shakes his head to clear away the bitter thought. She chose him, he reminds himself, though the little nagging worry is still present as his mind starts to drift off.

By the time Keldra comes in with a plate of food in each hand, both Tyri’el and Violet are fast asleep. She smiles, setting down the plates long enough to press a gentle kiss to each of their foreheads before leaving them to their well-deserved rest.


	47. Old Friend

Violet’s headache persists through the night, lessened but still present when she wakes to the distant sound of a bell chiming somewhere out on the tier. Her arm throbs with a dull ache where it’s draped across Tyri’el’s chest, and she flexes her hand to assure herself that it still works. Even in his sleep, Tyri’el holds her close, and she smiles through a yawn at his comforting weight beside her. She watches him for a moment, finally rolling over to sit up and stretch her arms above her head. Something large and orange stirs at the foot of the bed, and Violet lets out a small shriek of surprise.

“What? What?” Tyri’el says, immediately awake and upright with his hands held before him and poised to strike. He looks around the room, blinking hard a few times as his eyes adjust and settle at the foot of the bed and the shape there. “Ah…good morning?”

The arcane elemental is silent, the energies making up its body fluxing and swirling within the outline of its form.

“The bloody hell is that thing doing in here?” Violet asks, pulling up the blankets to cover herself despite still being fully clothed.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Tyri’el crawls towards the end of the bed, reaching out to poke at the elemental. “Archmage?”

“Hm? Oh, oh good heavens, you brainless creature!” Khadgar’s voice comes from the elemental, sounding far away at first, but after the sounds of something heavy moving across a floor and the shuffling of papers, his voice becomes clearer and closer. “My sincerest apologies to the both of you. I instructed my witless friend here to seek you out on my behalf, but I didn’t intend for it to, ah…”

Khadgar clears his throat.

“Do forgive me.”

“Light above,” Violet mutters, exchanging a sideways glance with Tyri’el.

“What can we help you with this morning, Archmage?” Tyri’el relaxes back onto heels, looking down at the elemental from where he’s kneeling on the end of the bed.

“I received word from Dalaran that your presence has been requested.”

“What does the Kirin Tor want with us?” Violet asks, crawling over to sit next to Tyri’el.

“Just him, actually,” Khadgar says through his servant, and again comes the sound of shuffling papers. 

“Me?” Tyri’el asks, eyebrow piqued.

“I have a letter here from a sin’dorei mage by the name of Aethas Sunreaver. It came in the hands of a Kirin Tor messenger, so I assume it’s officially related in one way or another.”

“Did the messenger have anything else to say?”

“Only that I deliver it to you, in person. Here you go.” 

The elemental reaches inside of itself as if it’s digging into a pocket and produces a letter sealed with bright purple wax. Tyri’el takes it, eyeing it cautiously as he senses a privacy spell holding the seal intact.

“Once again, I am deeply sorry for the intrusion,” Khadgar says, followed by a short sigh. “I would have come myself but the reclamation of Quel’Danas is, in short, a logistical nightmare on this end.”

“Any progress of note?” Tyri’el can’t help but ask, his curiosity outweighing the dread brought with the question.

“Almost all of Dawnstar Village has been reclaimed from the Dawnblade. Your uncle plans to lead an incursion into the Sunwell Plateau within the next few days, provided enough of a force can be assembled in that time.”

Tyri’el hums, the sound noncommittal as he turns the envelope over in his hands.

“I’ll leave you to your morning. Again, do forgive my servant here. I shall have a long talk with it to ensure nothing so embarrassing happens again.” The elemental drifts across the room and out onto the balcony, floating over the edge and down out of sight. Tyri’el runs a hand down his face, using a small amount of mana to unlock the spell keeping the envelope sealed. 

“Who’s this Sunreaver character?” Violet asks, watching him crack the wax and pull out the letter inside.

“One of my classmates from the Academy. I can’t imagine what he would want from me, or why word from him is arriving by way of a Kirin Tor messenger.” Tyri’el scans the message penned in meticulously neat script, a frown overcoming him.

“Bad news?” Violet asks, unable to read the Thalassian over his shoulder.

“He wants me to meet him in Dalaran.”

“What for?”

“Doesn’t say. Only that the sentinels outside the shield will know to let me pass.”

“Last I knew, the Horde wasn’t allowed inside the city.”

“We’re not, but Aethas insists I’m welcome.”

“Could be a trap,” Violet muses, taking the letter from him and giving it a cursory sniff. “Smells enough like magic.”

“It is his handwriting,” Tyri’el replies, taking it back from her and stuffing it into the envelope again.

“Will you go?”

“I suppose I should,” Tyri’el says, idly turning the envelope over between his fingers as he thinks. “If it was important enough to send with a messenger, and to bind with a privacy spell, I should at least see what he wants of me.”

A small sigh escapes past Violet’s lips, and she reaches up to wrap her fingers around her necklace.

“What’s wrong?” Tyri’el asks, and Violet shakes her head, forcing up a smile.

“It’s nothing.”

“I respectfully disagree,” he says, tucking a strand of hair away from her face. “You know you can confide in me.”

“I…” Violet starts, trying to conjure up a convincing lie, but with the way he’s looking at her, willing her to tell the truth, any false words die in her throat. “I’m frightened. I’ve had years of my life stolen in one night, and I’ve no idea who took them or why. What if they come back? What if they’re watching us, and they come after me? What if Sylvanas decides I’m no longer of use to her, and she—”

“Nothing is going to happen to you.” Tyri’el gently takes her by the shoulders, careful of her injured arm. “I won’t allow it.”

“And what about you? What if they took away everything I learned, not just who taught it to me? What If I can’t fight anymore, and you’re in danger and I—”

“Then you’ll learn again. You are not helpless, Violet.” He looks at her in earnest. “We’ll get through this, you and I.”

“How can you be certain of that?”

“We’ve endured worse, and without each other. If we survived long enough on our own to stumble into each other’s lives, we can certainly weather this storm together.”

Violet huffs, unable to formulate a proper rebuttal on that front.

“We’re always running, always rushing off somewhere. Can’t we at least have a few day’s peace?”

Tyri’el thinks for a moment, taking her hands and twining his fingers with hers. 

“I’ll make you a deal.”

Violet’s eyes narrow.

“I’m listening.”

“Come with me to Dalaran, and after I sort out whatever Aethas wants of me, we can find someplace to hide away. Just us, for as long as you like.”

“I wasn’t invited. They don’t let just anyone inside their city these days.”

“If they won’t allow you passage, you can wait for me outside the shield. I can’t imagine Aethas will keep me for more than a few hours.”

Sighing, Violet looks down at their hands where they’re clasped together between them. There’s a sick, heavy feeling in her gut, and though she does her best to push it away for his sake, the apprehension still lingers.

“And after?”

“Anywhere you’d like.”

“Kalimdor. All of it.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover.” Tyri’el considers the size of the continent and the wildly varying terrain, from sky-touching mountains to long-stretching plains, filled in between by forests thousands of miles across in places. “It could be well into autumn by the time we manage to traverse it all.”

“Good,” Violet says, voice hardening just a hint. “I could never set foot in the Undercity again and it would be far too soon.”

Nodding in silent agreement, Tyri’el stands from the bed and offers her his hand. She takes it, and he draws her up and into a hug, holding her close for a moment before they go about getting ready. Neither brought much with them so it only takes a few minutes, most of it spent battling for use of the single hairbrush they have between them. Breakfast is on the table when they make it downstairs, and Keldra greets them with a warm smile as they enter the kitchen.

“You’re awake,” Senna exclaims, jumping up from the table to embrace Violet in a tight hug. “I was so scared that you would never, ever wake up!”

“I’m all right,” Violet assures her, returning the hug awkwardly with a sidelong glance at Tyri’el. He only shrugs and smiles apologetically, accepting a cup of tea from his mother. 

“Going somewhere?” Keldra asks, nodding at Tyri’el’s knapsack as he shrugs it to the floor. He exchanges a cautious look with Violet before he sighs and nods.

“We’re going to Dalaran.”

Keldra blinks in surprise, apparently taking a moment to register her son’s statement.

“What on Azeroth has possessed you to travel there, of all places?”

“I’ve been asked there, to meet with someone.”

“To which you gladly attend?” Keldra sets down her teacup, the porcelain clinking harshly against the table. “The Kirin Tor quite plainly showed their colors in regards to our people when they left you in their dungeon to await your death.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Tyri’el replies, a hard edge to his words. “But the request came from Aethas Sunreaver.”

“What is he—”

“That’s what I’m aiming to find out.” Tyri’el sighs, and Violet takes his hand under the table. “We won’t be there more than a few hours.”

“Come back as soon as you escape their walls,” Keldra says, jaw still set as she picks up her teacup to take a long sip with eyes fixed on her son. “I don’t trust those fools much farther than I could throw any one of them.”

“I’ll send word, but we won’t be back for a few months, at least.” Before his mother can pose another question, Tyri’el speaks again. “Violet and I are going to take some time to ourselves.”

Keldra looks between the two of them, eyes eventually softening as a sigh of resignation leaves her. 

“But you’re coming back, right?” Senna asks, face twisted with obvious worry. 

“Of course we are,” Violet says, and her earnest smile seems to placate the young elf, who grins back at her.

“Will you return in time for your birthday, at the very least?” Keldra frowns into her tea, voice lowering. “We have neglected a proper celebration for far too long.”

Tyri’el stands from the table and moves to his mother, putting his hands on her shoulders.

“We’ll be back for it,” he says quietly, offering a small smile that she returns. 

“Please be careful,” she says after a moment. 

“We will.” Tyri’el kisses his mother’s forehead, and she looks over his shoulder at Violet.

“I would wish to speak to you alone for a moment, before you go.”

Violet nods, unsure what to say, and follows Keldra into the living room. 

“Take care of my son,” she says, tears in the corners of her eyes to match the emotion in her words. “He is all I have left of his father.”

“I would give my life for his,” Violet assures her, taking her hands. “A thousand times over.”

“I pray it never comes to that, but…I am grateful nonetheless.” Keldra looks down at their hands, squeezing Violet’s as she meets her eyes again. “I always wanted a daughter, you know. I suppose Belore granted my wish in you.”

Violet can only nod, emotions swirling around in her chest at the elf’s words.

“Thank you for…everything,” she says finally, and Keldra pulls her into a hug.

“I should be thanking you,” she says in Violet’s ear. “My son has hope because of you. Something he has lived without since…”

Pulling back, Keldra falls silent and smiles sadly.

“Belore go with you, Violet.”

They return to the kitchen, Keldra wiping at her eyes before pulling Tyri’el into a tight hug. They exchange a few words in Thalassian, and Violet finds herself in another vice-like embrace from Senna as she waits in the doorway.

“I’ll miss you,” she says, looking up at the human. “Promise you’ll come back?”

“I promise,” Violet says, only freed from the girl’s grasp when she moves to hug her uncle.

“Be good for your grandmother,” Tyri’el says, and Senna nods. He shoulders his knapsack as they move into the foyer and exchange final words of parting before leaving the house. As they leave the courtyard and emerge onto the street, Tyri’el takes Violet’s hand and looks over at her. “What did she say to you in the other room?” 

“She told me to take care of you.”

Tyri’el chuckles quietly.

“She told me the same of you,” he says, squeezing her hand. 

“I think I can manage,” Violet replies, and they pause to share a kiss before resuming their walk. The enter the stables a few minutes later, and upon seeing her mistress, Hala nearly breaks down the front wall of her stall. Violet manages to calm her with low, soothing words, but the worg is still excited enough that it makes securing her saddle a chore around her wiggling and whining. Violet spends a few minutes arguing with the stable master, insisting that she pay for Hala’s time there, but he refuses any kind of payment and she eventually gives up and thanks him profusely. As soon as his back is turned and he’s returned to his duties, Violet slips a handful of gold into his belt pouch without him taking notice.

“Seems you still remember some things,” Tyri’el remarks once they’re down the street a ways. Violet snorts.

“It’s far easier to impart coin than it is to steal it.”

The Scryer’s portal master resides in the very last building before the lift, and she begrudgingly agrees to open them a portal to the eastern shore of Lordamere Lake. When they emerge on the other side, the sun is just breaking over the foothills of the Alterac mountains to the north and west, and the chill of morning has yet to disappear from the forest around them.

“Light, couldn’t have gotten us any closer?” Violet remarks, looking out over the calm waters of the lake. Fenris Keep is barely visible beyond the mist rising from the water, and in the opposite direction, not even the very top of the Violet Citadel can be seen over the reaching tips of the pine trees to the south.

“Likely as close as she could, given the dampeners erected by the Kirin Tor.” Tyri’el scratches Hala behind the ears. “Besides, it gives me a chance to make up for not taking you out for a run last night, hm?”

Hala huffs at him, clearly offended by his forgetfulness, but hunkers down to allow both him and her mistress to climb up into the saddle. They ride swiftly to the south, Hala carrying them with all the energy of a beast cooped up inside for too long.

“We must be getting close,” Violet remarks, sensing the the growing hum of magic in the air. Tyri’el has been aware of it for much longer, feeling his own magic dampened by spells laid into the forest all around, and the closer they get to the city itself, the more he begins to feel like he’s bound with very strong rope. A break in the trees appears a few minutes later and Violet steers Hala towards it, pulling on the reins to slow the worg to a trot as the forest finally gives way.

A fresh ache starts in her chest as she lays eyes on the city she once knew very well. Most of the city is encapsulated within a dome of purlplish arcane energy, and from the hill they’re on, it looks like a tiny souvenir snowglobe nestled down in the valley below. Only the outlines of the buildings within are visible, their silhouettes mostly obscured by the dome, but the towering height of both the Violet Citadel and the Violet Hold are immediately recognizable. Some of the buildings beyond the city proper sit outside the barrier, and even from their vantage point, the newcomers can see mages patrolling the streets with arcane elementals trailing at their sides. 

“Will you be all right in there?” Violet asks as Tyri’el’s boots hit the ground. She looks down at him, seeing apprehension in his eyes as he surveys the city.

“So long as I’m not forced into another extended tour of their dungeons,” he says, and Violet frowns.

“I don’t like not knowing why you’re here,” she admits, climbing down from the saddle and commanding Hala to sit. The worg complies, flopping down and lapping greedily at the basin of water Tyri’el barely manages to conjure for her. He flexes his hands with a sneer, sickened by the weakness imposed on him. Violet takes his hands, looking up at him. “I don’t like this at all.”

“I’ll be on my guard,” he assures her, despite the unease of being left without most of his magic at the moment. He suspects the wards are only active outside the city, but he can’t be completely sure. “I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

“Be careful,” Violet says, her voice almost a growl, and pulls him into a wanting kiss. “Light help me, I will tunnel my way in there if they so much as—”

“I’ll be sure to let them know as much,” Tyri’el says, stealing one last kiss before starting down the hill. Violet pleads to the Light to keep him safe, settling down beside Hala to wait for his return. 

As he nears the outskirts of the city, Tyri’el can almost taste the waves of energy radiating off the barrier. The hum of power is stronger here, so much so that he can feel it reverberating in his chest, and he wonders how the mages patrolling the barrier can stand to be around it for so long. Just as he reaches the first building at the very edge of the outskirts, a gruff looking human woman emerges from it and heads straight for him.

“Sunfury?” She asks, looking him up and down with one graying eyebrow piqued.

“I am he, yes,” Tyri’el replies, surprised that she addresses him by that name. He hasn’t been in contact with Aethas since he started to go by his mother’s maiden name, and he files away his curiosity for a later time.

“Follow me.” She turns on her heel and heads deeper into the outskirts, and Tyri’el follows her, keeping his eyes trained ahead to ignore the curious stares of the other patrolling mages and their familiars. The main gate of the city appears around the buildings, and he tries not to remember the last time he passed through them, hands and feet bound with a silencing rune carved into his tongue. He can almost taste the blood and the bitter sting of the magic, and an angry shiver rides up his spine. Two war-mages appear on the other side of the barrier, their faces obscured by the traditional helm of the Kirin Tor, and they begin to cast a spell that the human on the outside mimics in time. The barrier weakens and disappears, leaving a door-like opening just large enough for Tyri’el to step through when the war-mages bid him enter. One of them begins to cast again once he’s inside, the other approaching him and bowing at the waist.

“Welcome to Dalaran, Lord Sunfury,” he says, gesturing for him to follow. Tyri’el does, again puzzled by the title used for him. Most humans don’t know the intricacies of titles within Thalassian nobility, so he mentally shrugs it off, glad that they at least aren’t addressing him by Soven’s surname. The small corridor inside the main gate opens up after a moment, and the red-paved streets of Dalaran welcome him with much more life than the last time he’d been here. The city looks almost completely rebuilt, as opposed to the relative ruins it had been only a few years before. The streets are filled with people - most of them humans, he notes - all going about their daily lives like they aren’t the least bit affected by being trapped like fish in a bowl. Children scamper past, giggling and squealing in their games, and his heart falls at the sound. Not too long ago, Silvermoon had been this full, this happy.

The war-mage says nothing as he leads Tyri’el through the city, always a few steps ahead like he’s ashamed to bee seen with a blood elf. A few quel’dorei stop to openly stare at him as he passes, and he feels their eyes on him long after they’re out of his line of sight. Most people who lay eyes on him are awestruck, but it quickly turns to fear or disgust. Mothers hug their children to their sides, and hands find their ways to the hilts of swords as a clear warning to a member of the Horde. Whispers are everywhere, but Tyri’el holds his head high, looking every bit the part of his heritage, even if no one here can appreciate it. They pass the fountain, and a happier memory finds it way to him, that of a summer day long since passed where he and Hathir had spent nearly all of their traveling money by tossing coins into the crystal clear waters. There had been a time where the city had been his home, as it had been his father’s and uncle’s when they were younger. Kael’thas had once been a prominent member of the Kirin Tor, but like so many other things, that is just another ghost that follows his son as he moves through the city streets.

The Violet Citadel comes into view around the corner of a building, and it’s splendor has no less of an effect on him than it did all those years ago. He cranes his neck, still marveled by just how high the spire reaches, and it’s only at the polite-yet-annoyed cough of the war-mage that Tyri’el realizes he’s stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the busy street. Muttering an apology, he follows after his escort, staying dutifully close until they reach the top of the stairs and enter the Citadel itself. The main area of the ground floor is full of students and members of the Kirin Tor, and there is no shortage of incredulous looks cast in Tyri’el’s direction as he’s lead up the main staircase and through the large door there. 

“This will take you to the administrative level,” the war-mage says, indicating a large orb just beyond the doors. “Sixth door on the right will be Archmage Sunreaver’s study.”

Before Tyri’el can sputter out a question regarding his friend’s apparent title, his escort is gone, and he’s left to shake his head and place his hand on the orb. He appears at the end of a long hallway, counting the doors until he finds the sixth, raising his hand to knock, only to have the door swing open of its own accord. The small antechamber inside is empty, but the door on the far side opens.

“Do come in,” comes a voice from within, and Tyri’el obeys, passing through the smaller room into a large office. As expected, it’s meticulously clean and orderly, a far cry from the normally catastrophic mess that overtakes the private spaces of most mages. At the far end, behind an equally tidy desk, sits a blood elf barely younger than Tyri’el, his eyes on his work and his deep red hair falling over his shoulder in a neat ponytail. He glances up, a bright smile lighting up his face. “Bal’a dash, Tyri’el. I didn’t expect you to answer my summons so soon.”

“I’ll admit my curiosity got the better of me,” Tyri’el says, grasping Aethas’s forearm in greeting when he comes around the desk. “This is…highly unexpected.”

“Come,” Aethas says, gesturing to a set of doors opened to the pleasant morning breeze. “I’ll explain everything.”

They emerge onto a small balcony overlooking the city, and by their height off the ground, Tyri’el estimates they must be at least thirty stories up. Aethas brings a wine bottle and two glasses with him, pouring a modest serving for them both as they sit at a small table. Tyri’el takes the glass when offered, and a cursory sip brings a smile to his lips.

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Aethas comments, noticing his reaction.

“Suntouched Special Reserve,” Tyri’el says, swirling around the dark burgundy liquid before taking another drink. “It’s been too long since I’ve had some.”

“I thought it appropriate, given the circumstances.”

“And what might those be?”

Aethas takes a deep breath, releasing it through slack lips as he seems to collect his courage.

“I’ve been…” He pauses, waving his hand to cast a privacy charm. “I need your word that nothing said here leaves this balcony until further notice.”

“Of course.”

Seeming to relax, Aethas begins again.

“For nearly a year now, I’ve been lobbying on behalf of our people to finally be allowed a place amongst the Kirin Tor. Formally, that is.” He rolls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “Only recently has the Council of Six taken me seriously.”

“Does Lor’themar know?” Tyri’el asks, eyebrows nearly lost in his hairline. “For that matter, does Rommath know?”

“Not just yet. I wanted to be sure all of the pieces were in place before I took word back to Silvermoon.”

“Am I to assume they are?”

“More or less.” Aethas takes another deep breath, looking more nervous than Tyri’el can remember seeing him in a long time. “They’ve offered me Prince Kael’thas’s place within the Council.”

“Congratulations, I suppose,” Tyri’el says after the moment taken to recover from his shock. 

“It’s undeserved,” Aethas replies, shaking his head. “I’ve wanted our people to be welcomed in the city, but I hadn’t anticipated such a forward offer. It wasn’t until the prince was killed that I even knew they had been taking my pleas seriously.”

“Will you take it?” 

Aethas meets his eyes, a hint of a frown touching his lips.

“That’s why I asked you here, as a matter of fact.”

“I don’t see why you need my permission to—”

“You misunderstand,” Aethas says, holding up a hand to halt Tyri’el’s words. “I asked you here because I thought it best to advocate for you as a member instead of me.”

Tyri’el can’t help but laugh at that, the sound coming out bitter and near-hysterical.

“Me? Belore’s wrath, Aethas, what possessed you to think I would be suited to such a position?”

“I thought of your uncle first,” Aethas replies, the tips of his ears drooping in what Tyri’el can only assume is hurt from his words. “However, he’s always been very vocal about his distaste for the Kirin Tor.”

“I’m ill-suited to bureaucracy.” Tyri’el shakes his head. “If they offered the position to you, it belongs to you alone.”

“I thought it might be better for a Sunfury to…” Aethas sighs. “You really don’t want it?”

“Not in the least,” Tyri’el says, taking a sip of his wine as he looks out over the city. “You’re a brilliant mage, Aethas. You always have been.”

“I will be honest, I was hoping for a different answer.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m no politician. I’m not even from a noble house. Navigating Thalassian politics is tedious at best, but humans…I don’t know that I’m prepared for this as well as I thought I was.”

“You’re a quick study.”

“I certainly hope it carries over to this.” 

They slip into a few moments of silence, Tyri’el taking the time to process everything he’s just learned. Dalaran has always been an Alliance city, so admitting a member of the Horde to their uppermost reaches is quite a ground-breaking move on the Council’s part. Aethas seems deep in thought as well, finally speaking up as he pours them both more wine.

“I suppose this leads me to the second part of my reason for calling you here.”

Tyri’el arches an eyebrow but says nothing.

“Once I accept the position, the announcement will be made that our people are welcome in Dalaran, as are the rest of the races of the Horde.”

Tyri’el nearly chokes on his wine, looking to his friend with wide eyes.

“This has already been decided?”

Aethas nods.

“The eastern part of the city, currently mostly empty after reconstruction, will be designated as a sanctuary for members of the Horde.”

“Dalaran is declaring itself a neutral nation, then?”

“Yes. There are…many things that went into such a magnanimous decision.” Aethas meets his eyes again. “Word has come from Northrend. The Scourge moves again.”

A cold shudder overcomes Tyri’el, immediately followed by a surge of white-hot rage.

“Peace through mutual threat,” he says, downing the rest of his wine in one go. Aethas nods, immediately refilling his friend’s glass.

“As such…if I am to take this position, I would wish to have you here as my second in command.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“A linguist of your caliber is hard to come by, as is a Thalassian mage willing to listen to reason over embroiled emotions and prejudices.” Aethas suddenly seems very young, like a child traipsing around in shoes three sizes too big. “And you are one of the few friends I still have left in this world. It would certainly make this new title more bearable to have you here.”

“I have prior commitments,” Tyri’el says hesitantly, looking across the city to where he’d left Violet outside the barrier.

“Sylvanas is well aware of the Scourge’s activity. Losing her Royal Scribe is arguably the least of her concerns at the moment.” Leaning back in his chair, Aethas chews on his bottom lip, an old habit that is familiar to Tyri’el from their time together when they were younger, a time that now seems farther away than it is. “I can have official paperwork drawn up by the end of the day. One of the vacant homes in the Horde’s new sanctuary is yours should you decide to stay.”

“I will need to think on it.”

“Take as much time as you need. I realize it’s not a decision made lightly.”

“Will the barrier come down?”

“Eventually. For now, it will remain in place until arrangements can be solidified for the shift to neutrality.” Aethas looks over at him. “Why do you ask?”

“There is…I have someone waiting for me outside the city as we speak. If I agree to stay here, it would be on the condition that she is allowed to live here with me.”

Aethas is silent for a moment, reading the expression on his friend’s face before speaking.

“The human girl? Violet?”

“I…yes. How could you have possibly known that?”

“I visited Silvermoon recently. Gossip still spreads like wildfire there.”

Sighing, Tyri’el drags a hand down his face.

“If Lor’themar sees merit in her, I have no reason to think she shouldn’t be welcome here. I can argue for allowing her citizenship while the barrier still stands.”

“You have my thanks,” Tyri’el says, eyes again finding the far horizon. “I would wish to bring her into the city today, if it’s all the same.”

“I can write up something to give the sentries when you return,” Aethas says, standing from the table. Tyri’el follows him back into his study, waiting silently as he quickly pens something on a piece of parchment and seals it. Handing the note to him, Aethas seems hesitant to speak. “I…heard what happened at Tempest Keep. I was deeply grieved to hear Capernian was among those…”

“Thank you,” Tyri’el replies, chest clenching with weeks - rather, years - of repressed guilt. 

“This human…she makes you happy?”

“She does.”

“I’m glad,” Aethas says, looking at his old friend in earnest. “Happiness is in too short of supply these days.”

“I will come to you with my decision as soon as I can,” Tyri’el replies, ignoring his statement.

“Take what time you need. I will be grateful for your visit either way.”

Tyri’el nods and turns to leave, pausing and turning back to Aethas as he sits behind his desk again.

“You’re certain this is the best course of action for our people?”

“We’ve fought too hard for too long, Tyri’el.” The words fall heavy from the other elf’s mouth, and they likely leave a bitter taste there, judging by the look on his face. “A little peace, however hastily bought, is long overdue.”

It’s only when he’s back on the ground and out of the Violet Citadel that Tyri’el realizes he’s been holding his breath since leaving Aethas’s office. He lets it out in a long drag of a sigh, looking out over the city that could soon be his new home. He knows Violet will likely be less than pleased at the notion, but he would be lying if he said that taking Aethas’s offer is completely out of the question for him. 

So many things have changed for the better in a very short span of time. Perhaps this is one of them.


	48. The Future Is Now

Spots of bright blood catch Tyri’el’s attention as he moves up the hill, the red swaths stark against the gentle green of the grass they cover. He quickens his ascent, following the stains with hurried steps until he reaches the top, and breathes a short sigh of relief. There, perched atop a boulder at the edge of the treeline, sits Violet, picking stray leaves from her hair. Hala sits off to the side, her pale fur spattered with blood and bits of gore, and she feasts on the exposed innards of a hulking black bear. She looks up at him, her tongue lolling to one side and her face soaked red, and lets out a short yip of greeting before plunging her head back into the beast’s carcass.

“Belore’s wrath,” Tyri’el exclaims, giving Violet a cursory once-over as he approaches her. “I leave you by yourself for barely an hour.”

“I’m all right,” Violet replies, rolling her eyes and tossing aside a twig pulled from her golden locks with a short flick of her wrist. “And Hala had fun, didn’t you, girl?”

The worg responds with a pig-like grunt, her muzzle still buried inside the bear. Tyri’el sits beside Violet on the boulder, shaking his head. She doesn’t appear injured, save for a few dirty scuffs on her forearms that have barely drawn blood.

“Did you seek it out?” He asks, and Violet snorts.

“Other way ‘round. Came out of the woods and tried to knock me flat on my arse.” Violet sniffs, mildly offended at the thought, and runs her hands through her hair a few times to be sure she hasn’t missed anything. “Memories or no, I can still hold my own, it seems.”

“You killed it?” Tyri’el asks, eyes wide as he looks to the bear that, when alive, must have been nearly as tall as Hala, though not as big overall. The thought of her, confronting such a large and no doubt ferocious creature gives him a moment of delayed panic, but it’s soothed when he looks back to her and sees a determined look on her face.

“They didn’t take my training from me, just where I learned it. I’m still myself.” She looks down at her hands, flexing them a few times, before sighing and looking back up at him. “What did your friend want?”

Tyri’el sucks in a breath through his teeth, no closer to a proper explanation for her than when he’d started mentally preparing himself on the steps of the Violet Citadel. Hala trots over, having apparently gorged herself to satisfaction, and Tyri’el jumps up and out of her reach when she tries to lick him in greeting. Violet commands the worg to halt and lie down, and with a begrudging huff, she obeys and settles to the ground to lick at the bloodstains trailing down her chest.

“You’re back earlier than I thought you’d be,” Violet comments, rising to smooth at his hair before placing her palms flat on his chest. His heart is hammering beneath her hand, and the faintest trace of fear mingles with his usual scent. She frowns, looking up to find him watching her closely, but his eyes settle on the horizon as soon as they meet hers. “What did he want of you?”

“Aethas asked me to stay in Dalaran.”

“For how long?” The frown is evident in her voice, even if he’s not looking at her to know for sure. Weighing his words, Tyri’el takes a breath before speaking.

“Indefinitely.”

“I see.”

When he finally looks down at her, Tyri’el doesn’t see the disappointment or displeasure he’s been expecting. Instead, he sees deep worry etched into her features, eyes rimmed with the faintest trace of moisture as she fusses with the collar of his shirt.

“You’re considering it,” she says finally, still not looking at him, and it’s not a question.

“I am,” he admits, hands moving to rest on her upper arms. She winces at the touch on her injured arm, but her expression remains hard. With his thumb and forefinger, Tyri’el lifts her chin and waits for her pale eyes to meet his. “The offer extends to you, as well.”

Violet blinks, brow furrowing more in confusion now.

“I told him that if he wanted me to stay, it would be with the provision that you be allowed to stay with me.”

“And he agreed?”

“Readily. It seems you garnered something akin to respect amongst some of my people.”

“I can’t imagine how.”

“As I said, my people do not take sacrifices lightly. Twice now, you’ve risked yourself for the benefit of the sin’dorei, and that’s two times more than most humans ever have.” Tyri’el smiles, brushing his knuckles over her cheek. “More, if you count the times you’ve saved my sorry self from certain death.”

Violet lets out a long, slow breath, her mind running in frantic circles as she tries to make sense of this new information.

“Sylvanas would never allow it. She already tried to tear my arm off for breaking whatever tracking spell she had your uncle brand into me.” She rubs absently at her wrist, remembering the iron grip of the Banshee Queen. “I belong to her.”

Tyri’el’s smile falters, and he’s reminded all at once that he, too, belongs to Sylvanas in a way. He does his best to not let it touch his face, but the dread coiling in his gut only grows at the thought of having to face the Dark Lady for a formal announcement of resignation. It will be worth it, he decides, to live above ground and out from under the thumb of his uncle, and if Aethas was speaking truthfully in his offer, he would have a house to call his own. Their own, he corrects himself, and his smile returns.

“You would be free to come and go as duty demanded,” he says, and Violet looks up at him. “Aethas has promised to argue for your citizenship, and he’s offered me a house in the eastern sector of the city.”

“The Kirin Tor approved of these offers?”

“More or less,” Tyri’el replies, and he takes her hands in his. “Think of it, Violet. We can start over. It won’t matter where we’ve been or what we’ve seen, or even what banners we’ve marched under. We can have a life here like we couldn’t anywhere else.”

If not for the suffocating ache blooming in her chest, Violet might have the breath to speak. But she remains silent, words stolen by the thought of entering Dalaran. Of living there as Tyri’el promises she can. How many times had she thought of coming back here, to explain herself and beg for forgiveness? As many times as her fear and grief had kept her rooted in place, unable to fathom the idea of knocking on that door and meeting their eyes, to see the rage and hatred she knew they would hold.

And yet, despite that crippling fear, a strange sort of hope begins to replace the hurt squeezing around her heart. Perhaps they _could_ make a home here. All of her worrying, all of the what-ifs and doubt-ridden thoughts of uncertainty, could simply stay beyond the barrier, and inside, they could find a place of peace for just the two of them. Anywhere with Tyri’el would be a home to her, but the notion of an actual place to call their own brings with it a new sense of belonging that she’s not had for many years, and feared she would never again reclaim. She pictures some tiny house nestled amongst the red-paved streets, pictures a home in every sense of the word, and tries to see herself inside of it. Tyri’el is there, and he’s smiling as bright as the sun, kissing her and holding her close and never letting go. Then there’s laughter and the sound of little feet scampering about, made by children as bright and beautiful as their father. He would love them, and be there for them in a way that neither of their parents had ever truly known in their own lives. They could all be happy, and together, and it could be _real._

Tyri’el watches the emotions swirl behind Violet’s eyes, watches her features go from pained to overcome by wonderment, and then sees a small smile touch her lips. Belore’s mercy, what he’d give to make sure she never again needed to shed a single tear. This is all so sudden and completely out of the blue, but he feels it deep in his chest, that this is the start of a new era of his life, as new as the morning breaking over the mountains.

“This is what you want?” Violet asks, biting her lip as her voice wavers. She will face the wrath surely awaiting her inside the city, and any hell after that if it means holding onto the man cradling her so gently in this moment. She will weather any storm, ford any cresting waters and slay any foe that even so much as thinks of stealing this newfound peace from them. The Banshee Queen herself included.

“If it means a life with you, a real life outside the lines and hatreds of our factions…how can I possibly say no?”

“That isn’t what I asked,” Violet says, resting her forehead over the steadied beat of his heart. The heart he’s so fully entrusted to her, even knowing what she keeps caged and barely at bay within herself. “Is this offer, whatever Aethas has asked of you, is it what you truly want?”

Tyri’el considers her words. He trusts Aethas not to rush headlong into something without carefully considering every aspect of it, and something as monumental as Dalaran breaking its seclusion and welcoming the Horde into its fold likely gave the younger elf countless sleepless nights of careful deliberation. If the Scourge truly moves again, it means that Arthas has broken free from his prison atop the Frozen Throne and that the world once again faces a threat not even escapable by the mercy of death. He has a chance to stand where he could not during the fall of Quel’Thalas, to fight where he has only ever been passive.

“Yes,” he says, looking out over the landscape before his eyes settle on the city below. “This is where I need to be.”

Lifting her head, Violet sees the conviction that laces his words, and her chest swells with pride. Holy Light, what had she done to deserve such a blessing?

“Then I will stay with you.”

Tyri’el can’t possibly stop the grin that spreads across his face, and despite the nervous flutter in her gut, Violet soon mirrors it fully.

“We _will_ make it to Kalimdor,” he promises, resting his forehead against hers.

“Yes, we will.” Arching up onto her tiptoes, Violet takes his lips, and for just a moment, the world ceases to exist outside of each other’s embrace. The peace they’ve both craved for so long is just within their reach, as close as their bodies where they cling to each other like nothing else in their lives is solid or real.

“Aethas is expecting me back,” Tyri’el says, loath to break away but needing to breathe. “We can stay at one of the inns until the finer details are worked out.”

“You’re sure they’ll let me into the city?” Her nerves return, only held at bay by his gentle hold on her.

“It’s all taken care of, I promise.”

Humming in agreement, Violet looks back at Hala, who by now has moved on to licking the blood from her legs and paws.

“Can’t bring her in looking like that,” she muses, and Hala looks up at her mistress, tail thumping once in acknowledgment.

“The lake isn’t far. We can get her cleaned up.”

With some coaxing, they manage to lead Hala away from her prized meal and back to the shores of Lordamere Lake. The words ‘wash’ and ‘bath’ have clearly never been a part of her vocabulary, in any language, and she only stands with her feet barely in the water and cocks her head to one side as her mistress orders her farther out.

“Light above,” Violet exclaims, arms thrown in the air when the worg sits in the sand and continues turn her head to either side in confusion. “Into the water, you great silly beast.”

“Perhaps you should go in with her,” Tyri’el calls from the edge of the sand as he plants himself amongst the dune grass with a wide grin. Violet glares at him, shaking her finger like a scolding mother, but says nothing.

“Fine,” she mutters, rolling up the legs of her trousers and pulling off her shirt to leave herself with nothing but her breastband from the waist up. “Have to do everything myself.”

“What was that?” Tyri’el reclines back with his arms out behind him, watching her tie her hair back and quite enjoying the view. She responds with another glare, though it’s clear she’s trying not to break into a smile. She unfastens Hala’s saddle and eases it down onto the sand, huffing as she brushes her bangs from her face.

“Come on, girl,” she says, gesturing for Hala to follow as she wades out into the shallows. The worg stands and follows obediently, and by the time Violet leads her out up to her own knees, Hala is nowhere near deep enough to wash the blood from anything but her paws. Violet puts her hand to her forehead with a groan.

“Something wrong?” Tyri’el calls, and Violet whirls to face him.

“Arse, in the water, _now_.”

“Can’t hear you. Too far away.”

“If I have to come get you, Tyri’el Sunfury, Light help me…”

“Oh, right, you want me to help. My apologies.” Tyri’el gets to his feet, still grinning as he makes his way towards the shore. He pulls off his own shirt, meeting Violet at the water’s edge, and they both proceed to shimmy out of their trousers until both are left in nothing but their smallclothes. Hala watches them with curiosity, stamping her feet in the water as they make their way back to her.

“You can swim, can’t you?” Violet asks, and Tyri’el snorts.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good.” Hands on her hips, Violet looks Hala over. “Don’t suppose you’d chase a stick if I threw it far enough in, would you?”

Hala only cocks her head to one side, and Violet sighs.

“Come on, girl,” Tyri’el says, wading out into the water past his knees. The lake is warmer this time of year, but he still hesitates to go past his waist. Violet dives in without a second thought, swimming underwater to emerge nearly to her chest in the clear water.

“Ugh,” she scoffs, wiping the water from her face. “I hate freshwater.”

“No sharks,” Tyri’el says, bringing handfuls of water up to his arms and chest to get himself used to the temperature.

“No salt, no tides,” Violet says, bringing her fingers to her lips to whistle for Hala. The worg trots into the water towards her mistress, the small waves around her staining red as the blood sloughs off. “But more often than not, there are murlocs.”

The blood in Hala’s furs is still fairly fresh, so it washes off easily enough once they manage to get her far enough into the water. She seems to think they’re just petting her excessively, and the excited motions of her tail splash them mercilessly as they work.

“We’re going to show up in Dalaran smelling like lake water and seaweed,” Violet comments once Hala is mostly clean. Something, perhaps a large fish, catches the worg’s attention, and she bounds away from them and paddles farther into the lake.

“Better than covered in blood,” Tyri’el replies, wiping the water from his eyes and slicking his hair away from his face. Violet’s gaze is cast downward, and her hand finds its way to her necklace. “What’s wrong?”

“I spent a lot of time out here when I was younger. Before my family was killed.”

“With Lord Goddard’s family?”

Violet winces at his words, and nods.

“There are a lot of memories in this lake.” She brushes her fingers over the surface of the water like she’s smoothing wrinkles from a cloth.

“We’ll make make new memories here, you and I,” Tyri’el says, drawing her into his arms to rest her head against his chest. Violet closes her eyes, praying that he’s right, that she never has to look back on this moment as just another thing she’s lost. Tyri’el’s chest rumbles as he curses, and Violet looks up, eyes following his line of vision before a similar sentiment leaves her lips.

“I told you,” she says, seeing Hala doggy-paddle towards them with a rather irate creature clamped firmly between her powerful jaws. Its garbled speech and scaled, flailing limbs don’t seem to bother the worg, and with just a small shift in pressure, she kills the murloc and spits its out as she reaches them. She wags her tail, clearly pleased with herself, and nudges the floating corpse in their direction.

“Oh, how kind,” Tyri’el remarks, wrinkling his nose but smiling at the worg.

“Such a brave hunter,” Violet says, voice like someone talking to a small child, and she gives Hala’s dripping muzzle a good scratch. With her head, she gestures to the shore. “Come on, silly thing.”

They move back to the shore, Hala dragging the murloc up onto the sand before devouring it in a few hurried bites, and Tyri’el uses a quick spell to dry them off in the absence of proper towels. He fishes a brush from his pack and helps Violet tame her hair before she does the same for him, and they pull on their clothes in time for Hala to shower them with water as she shakes herself dry. Once they get the worg’s saddle reattached, they ride back towards Dalaran, only dismounting when they reach the hill overlooking the city.

“No, no,” Violet says, grabbing the reins to keep Hala from running back to the corpse of the bear that has by now attracted carrion birds. Hala huffs in disappointment, dutifully following her mistress as they descend the hill towards the outskirts of Dalaran. “You’re certain they’ll—”

“Yes,” Tyri’el says, taking her hand and squeezing. “Everything is already taken care of.”

Violet tries to return his smile, but it likely comes off as strained as she turns her gaze back to the looming dome and the city within. She drops his hand for a moment, pulling up the hood of her cloak before taking it again, this time tighter.

“Back so soon?” It’s the same human who had led him to the gates before, and she eyes Violet with a moment of curiosity. “Devereaux?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Violet says softly, keeping her head down. Without a word, the mage turns towards the gate, and they follow her past the ever-curious sentries to the towering archway that once marked the start of the city proper. The last time she was here, she was a very different person, living a very different life, and she tries not to think about everything she’s lost since then. The war-mages open a small doorway and beckon them in, and Violet holds her breath as they cross into the city. It’s exactly as she remembers it, down to the vendors and streetfolk, and because of it, she keeps her head down as they move through the streets.

The crowds part wide for them, most of them eyeing Hala with downright terror, but the worg seems at ease to be amongst so many people. They find the stable not too far from the main gate, and the stable master seems surprised to see a human asking to board a worg, but the high elf gladly accepts Violet’s coin and leads Hala away with the promise that she’ll take good care of such a beautiful creature. They leave the stable, once again mixing into the morning rush.

“If I remember correctly, the Legerdemain Lounge is just ahead.” Tyri’el looks down, noting the discomfort on Violet’s face, but says nothing of it and takes her hand. Hard as it was to walk these streets just a short time ago after having spent an extended stay in the city’s dungeons, he can’t imagine what she must be experiencing right now based on what she’s told him of her time here in the past. He tightens his grip on her hand, offering a small smile when she glances up at him. “Ah, here we are.”

The inn, too, is exactly as Violet remembers. The same kind-eyed high elf stands behind the bar, and his wife still minds the front counter. Violet prays they don’t recognize her.

“Good morning, and welcome to the Legerdemain Lounge! What can I — oh!” The tawny-skinned human woman startles halfway through her normal greeting, unused to seeing a blood elf within her establishment. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s quite alright,” Tyri’el says with a gentle smile, though it doesn’t touch his eyes.

“Is something the matter, my love?” It’s the bartender who speaks, coming around the front counter to put his arm protectively around his wife. His crystal blue eyes widen when he sets them on their prospective guest. “Margrave Dawnheart, I…this is indeed unexpected.”

“Bal’a dash, Arille,” Tyri’el says, stiffening somewhat upon seeing the familiar face. The high elf’s eyes fall to Violet, who is very intently staring at her boots. “You’ve kept the place quite well.”

“Thank you,” Arille stammers. “My father would have been proud to hear such praise.”

“Would you permit us to rent a room? I can get a writ from the Council if you’re uncertain of my welcome within the city.”

“That’s not necessary, Margrave. Please, enjoy your stay.” Arille reaches under the counter and produces a key, sliding it across the hardwood to Tyri’el. His wife gives him a questioning look, but smiles at them and motions towards the stairs.

“End of the hall on your right,” she says, and Tyri’el hands her a few coins and thanks her, pulling Violet towards the stairs. Once they’re up and out of sight, Violet lets out the breath she’d been holding and pulls down her hood.

“That went better than expected,” Tyri’el says, running a hand down his face as he matches the number on the key to the number on one of the doors. Once inside, he shuts the door behind him, and shrugs off his knapsack.

“Do you happen to know every elf in existence?” Violet asks, once again astounded by just how many people he seems to know everywhere they end up.

“Most who are left,” Tyri’el says, a hint of sadness in his voice, and Violet immediately regrets her question. “Arille’s father ran this inn before him, and Hathir and I came here quite often during our stay here.”

“You lived in Dalaran?”

“For almost half a century,” he says, nodding. “It was part of our secondary education after the Royal Academy. Not that the humans had very much more to teach us. It was a nice break from the stale ranks of Thalassian society, however.”

Violet hums in acknowledgment, thinking as she pulls off her cloak and hangs it on the coat rack by the door.

“What do we do now?” She asks, coming to sit next to him where he’s seated himself on the end of the bed.

“I should return to Aethas and formally accept his offer,” Tyri’el says, stroking at the small patch of hair on his bottom lip. “We can have a walk around the city, perhaps to the bakery for a proper breakfast.”

“I would really rather stay here,” Violet says, fingers curling into the blanket beneath them.

“Because we’re finally alone, or because you don’t want to go out?”

“Bit of both.”

Tyri’el sighs, not at all upset, and puts his arm around her.

“We’ll have to leave the room sometime.”

“I know,” Violet says, looking up at him with her lower lip caught between her teeth, at first in thought, but her expression turns mischievous in the time it takes Tyri’el to blink. “I think we can keep ourselves busy in the meantime, yeah?”

It’s past noon by the time they make it out of their room again, clean and grinning wide from their shared shower. Halfway through their lunch, Violet notices the innkeeper watching them, and she realizes that she forgot to pull up the hood of her cloak. Amisi gives her a warm, if not concerned, smile before returning to her work at the front counter, and Violet hunches her shoulders, certain the woman recognizes her.

“What would you like to do for the rest of the day?” Tyri’el asks, taking a sip of his drink as he watches her poke at her meal with waning interest.

“Shouldn’t you speak to Aethas?”

“That won’t take the rest of the day. Even if he decides he wants to sit down and smooth out the details, it should leave us with most of the evening to ourselves.”

“There’s tragically little to do here for someone not a mage, if I remember correctly.”

“I’m sure we can find trouble of some kind to get mixed up in.” Tyri’el waggles his eyebrows at her, and Violet bites back a smile, eyes falling back to her plate. He rests his hand on top of hers. “You seem unhappy to be here.”

“Not unhappy. Just…uneasy, I suppose.”

“Why’s that?”

“I…left loose ends here after I lost my family. Many people here know me, and I’m not keen to run into any of them.” Violet sighs, finally giving up on her deadened appetite and setting down her fork in defeat. “I’m afraid they’ll ask for an explanation.”

“You don’t owe that to anyone,” Tyri’el says, and Violet shakes her head in response.

“Some of them, I most certainly do. But…” She looks up at him, and his heart clenches at the sorrow there. “If that’s what it takes to carve out a place we can finally exist together, I will cross that bridge as it comes.”

“You were scared, and you didn’t—”

“I know,” she says, cutting him off. “Rationally, I know. But…”

Violet trails off, taking a long drink before speaking again.

“I will always carry that guilt. It’s not something that is so easily abandoned.”

They pay for their meal and leave the Lounge, Violet pulling up her hood before they step out the door, and they make their way towards the Violet Citadel. There’s a lull in the crowd so near to lunch, and they make good time in reaching the steps to the towering spire. Tyri’el pulls Violet close, speaking in her ear so only she can hear.

“I won’t be long. If it does drag on too long and you want to return to the room, I’ll meet you back there.”

“I was hoping to stop by the fountain, if it’s all the same to you.” Violet smiles sadly. “It’s been a long time since I traded a coin for a wish.”

“Here.” Tyri’el reaches into his belt pouch and pulls out a gold piece, bringing it to his lips before pressing it into her palm. “Make a wish for the both of us.”

“Anything in particular?” She asks, running her thumb over the smooth metal.

“I think you know what I’d ask.” He presses his lips to her forehead. “I won’t be long, my love.”

Violet’s cheeks color at the simple phrase, uttered so casually, and watches Tyri’el ascend the steps until he’s out of sight.

“Light preserve me,” she whispers, turning south. She finds the fountain easily, and it, like everything else in the city, is exactly as she remembers it. She and her adoptive sister had spent hours here, planning their futures and tossing coin after coin into the crystalline waters to ensure that their wildest dreams would come true. More memories return unbidden, of the time spent time here with—

Violet shakes her head, clenching Tyri’el’s coin so hard that the smooth edges start to dig into the soft flesh of her palm. The pain is sobering, and she approaches the fountain, sitting on the very edge with care not to dip the hem of her cloak into the water. She cradles the coin in cupped hands, asking the Light to guide her wish, to grant it and bring her what she so desperately craves.

“Grant me the peace of sharing my life with the one I love,” she whispers, as if the coin can hear her, and closes her eyes. With a short motion, she tosses the gold piece over her head and waits to hear the soft _plink_ as it hits the water. By the time she turns around, she can’t tell which is hers amongst the many glittering coins carpeting the bottom of the tiled basin. The tiny goldfish inhabiting the fountain swarm to her as she touches the surface of the water with her fingertips, and she smiles absently at their eagerness. So happy inside such a tiny space. Maybe she can learn to be like them.

Around her, the the current of the city ebbs and flows. The citizens look happy by all accounts, mingling with each other under the spell that turns the dome into an artificial sky. Violet keeps her face hidden under her hood, but she watches everyone that passes with keen eyes nonetheless. No one pays her any mind, and she can’t help but feel very alone despite her place in the midst of the crowd. They all belong here, she thinks bitterly. They all have a purpose and a place.

A silver-haired high elf approaches the fountain, a young child balanced on each hip. The two boys are babbling to each other as only toddlers can, and their mother sets them down at the very edge of the fountain, only a few feet away from Violet. They squeal with delight and reach out to splash at the water, their mother kneeling with them and keeping them from tumbling over the edge. Violet watches them with a small smile, seeing their happiness, and as the high elf smooths at the copper hair of one of her sons, Violet realizes that both boys are half-elves. It starts a strange sensation in her gut, seeing their much shorter ears and less-refined features that mark them as half human, as well. That could very well be her someday, she thinks, and a bit of cheer returns to her as she watches the mother dote on her sons.

Not wanting to stare too long at the precious twins, Violet drags her eyes away from the fountain and returns them to the rest of the city. After spending so much time amongst the Forsaken and the sin’dorei, it’s comforting to be back in a place filled with humans. For a moment, it’s easy to close her eyes and listen to the hustle and bustle and pretend that she’s traveled back in time, back to before her life was turned on-end for the second time in far too few years. When she opens her eyes, she looks to the crowds across the square, past the goblin performing magic tricks for eager-eyed children. It’s hard not to search for familiar faces, though she dreads the thought of meeting anyone who knew her before—

Violet’s heart nearly stops, and a flood of uncertainty laced with adrenaline overcomes her. There, across the way, is a flash of a profile, just the barest hint of a face she’d tried so hard to bury within the furthest reaches of her memories. She blinks hard, rising to her feet in an attempt to keep her eyes on him, but the head of raven hair is nearly lost in the rush of the market. A few faltering steps turn into a desperate sprint, and she feels like she’s running through one of her nightmares, chasing the man that will disappear into the darkness as soon as she so much as grasps for him.

“Dacian,” she calls out, voice high and frantic. Far ahead of her, the man falters, head barely turning to one side as if he can’t decide if he’d heard his name called. He shakes his head, quickening his pace through the throngs of people, and Violet pushes her way after him, hood falling to her shoulders as she muscles past a group of gossiping apprentices. She calls his name again, and once more, he pauses, nearly sprinting away when he resumes moving. Caught behind a horse-mounted merchant, Violet climbs over the cart dragging behind it and calls out desperately as her boots hit the pavestones again. “Blackbird!”

The man stops dead in his tracks, and even from where Violet stands several yards away, she can see his hands start to shake at his sides. One hand finds the pommel of the sword strapped to his belt, and he turns slowly, sky blue eyes scanning the crowd before they land on her where she manages to push her way past people until they’re only a few feet apart. All the air rushes from Violet's lungs at once, and she immediately reaches out to him, eyes clouded with tears. He’s exactly as he was when she lost him, down to the scar on his chin and the gentle curl of his dark hair. His eyes are wide and his brow furrows as his breath abandons him, as well.

“Violet,” he breathes, and though the crowd is noisy around them, Violet hears him speak perfectly clearly, and her heart leaps and then crashes to the floor in the next instant. This can’t be real. She’ll wake up any moment now, and he’ll be just another bitter loss at the bottom of a very long list written in blood and tears. But Light, it does look like him, far too detailed to be a hazy memory, and this wraith smells too much like him to be false. The young man mirrors her pose, reaching out to her, and Violet closes the distance between them in two feverish strides. She laces her fingers with his, marveling at the warmth of his hand, and closes her eyes, waiting for this reality to shatter and bring her screaming awake in the darkness of her quarters.

But his touch remains, and the world remains exactly as it is.

Violet opens her eyes, and he’s still there, still clad in simple plate armor covered by a tabard bearing the golden lion of Stormwind. He watches her, tears spilling down his cheeks as their eyes meet.

“It’s…it’s really you, isn’t it, little moon?” His eyes fall to her locket, and he reaches out to it, unable to force his fingers to make contact with the simple pendant. “This. This is too…this is too real to be just another nightmare.”

“It’s me, blackbird,” Violet breathes, and he pulls her tight against his chest with a short, strangled cry.

“By all that is holy,” he murmurs, one hand cradling the back of her head with the other still twined with hers between them. “I thought you were…”

He pulls back, looking her over to reassure himself that she’s real, that he, himself isn’t dreaming this.

“Those things…they killed you. I…”

“No, no,” Violet says, hands finding his cheeks as she brushes away his tears, hating how they look there and that she’s the reason they’ve fallen. “I ran, Dacian. She…she made me run. I thought…I was certain they’d slain you, too.”

“I was…Light, no, they didn’t find me. By the time I heard the screams and made it back…Light above, Vi. I was certain…”

“I’m here.” Violet blinks away her own tears, completely unaware of the stares their display has garnered them. “I right here, and you…you’re…”

“I’m right here, love,” Dacian says, in the same voice he’d used to soothe her a thousand times before, broken as it is by emotion in this moment. Violet, so overcome by confusion and joy, doesn’t think beyond her need to have him close, and pulls him to her to crush her lips against his. He’s the same, everything is the same, and he’s here and not stolen and something is finally, _finally_ not her fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I ain't even sorry.~~ Okay, maybe a little bit.
> 
> And I'm well aware that 'Little Moon' is Alleria's nickname for Vareesa, but I didn't know that when I came up with it, so it's staying. Because, you know. I'm a Titan and I do what I want.


	49. Torn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Minor self-harm, potentially disturbing invasive thoughts.

Taking the steps two and three at a time, Tyri’el makes his way into the Violet Citadel, passing through the throngs of students enjoying their lunch breaks, and takes the translocation orb to the administrative level. Aethas’s office door is wide open, and Tyri’el enters with a short knock on the door frame to announce his presence.

“Ah, back so soon?” Aethas looks up from where he’s flipping through a stack of papers as he leans back against his desk, one long copper eyebrow piqued in anticipation.

“I wanted to make you aware of my decision as soon as it was made.”

Aethas inclines his head to one side.

“A favorable choice, I hope.”

“So long as arrangements are cemented for Violet to stay in the city with me, I will gladly accept your offer to join the Kirin Tor.” Tyri’el can’t help but smile, a small flutter of nerves starting in his stomach. Aethas grins, the expression wholly too juvenile for a soon-to-be Archmage, but it suits him well, as it always has.

“Excellent,” Aethas exclaims, moving to clap Tyri’el on the shoulder. “I’ll arrange a meeting with the Council of Six to formally accept their offer. I’m sure they’ll be eager to meet with you, as well.”

“With me? Do they think it wise to reveal their identities to an outsider so readily?”

“You won’t be an outsider for very much longer, Tyri’el.” Aethas shakes his head. “And much has changed here since our days as students. The Council is no longer so supremely secretive as to their true identities. Not since after the Third War.”

“When will they want to meet?”

“I would imagine sometime today. Now that I’m accepting the position on the Council, it’s only a matter of a few days of final preparations before the announcement is made and Dalaran will officially become a neutral nation.” The younger elf’s grin softens but remains wide and hopeful. “History in the making, my friend, and we’re at the helm.”

“Belore help us all,” Tyri’el replies, breaking into a grin of his own.

“Do you think Hathir would join us? Arcane engineers are in dreadfully short supply here.”

“Do you really want to take on liability for the mishaps his experiments are sure to cause?”

“I’m sure we could come up with some kind of containment field should his work lean more towards the incendiary end of the spectrum.”

Tyri’el rolls his eyes.

“I can certainly ask him.”

“Good, good. It would be just like old times, hm?” Aethas’s expression turns thoughtful. “I’m glad you agreed to join me, Tyri’el. I can honestly say I was dreading the idea of spearheading this movement alone.”

“I’ll be happy to see our people welcome in the city once more. As you said, a bit of peace is long overdue.”

“Indeed it is.” Aethas goes back to his desk, sitting behind it and animating a quill with a flick of his wrist. “Where are you staying? I can send a messenger to fetch you when the Council is ready to speak with us.”

“We have a room at the Legerdemain Lounge,” Tyri’el says, and Aethas nods, scribbling a note on a stray piece of parchment.

“I would ask you to stay and talk for a while, but as I’m learning, the primary job of an Archmage is to wade through mountains of paperwork on a daily basis.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Tyri’el can’t help but smile at Aethas’s resigned sigh, and he leaves the younger elf to his work. Once back on the ground floor, he leaves the Citadel, stopping at the top of the steps to look out over the city that is very nearly his new home. The dread of going to speak with Sylvanas is still present, but it’s quickly drowned out by the sense of freedom that overcomes him. Finally, he won’t be subject to his uncle’s approval or disapproval, nor the orders of the Dark Lady. The air is clean and the sun is bright, and Belore’s splendor, he and Violet can finally start their life together. It’s like the first few moments of a brilliant dawn after years and years of endless night.

He barely resists the urge to jump and cheer like a giddy child, though his excitement is still clear in the spring in his step and the light in his eyes as he descends the steps and moves through the midday crowd. Violet will be waiting at the fountain for him, and he thinks he could easily dump his entire coin purse into the water in exchange for wishes for their life to come. With the streets so crowded, he cuts through Runeweaver Square, filled only with a few people enjoying their lunches under the shade of the cherry trees or sitting along the edges of the fountain there. He emerges from the other side, making his way past the archway leading to the Violet Hold and into the Eventide, looking through the crowd for Violet.

His eyes find her where she’s sitting on the edge of the fountain with her hood drawn up to hide her face, watching the crowd, and before he can call out to her, she springs up and surges into the flow of people. Tyri’el tries to follow after her, concerned for whatever caused such an abrupt change, but all he can do is keep track of her golden hair as she weaves through the crowd with much more tact than he can claim. Finally, he manages to find a break large enough to allow him to catch up with her, but when he does, he stops short, brows knit and eyes wide.

Violet stands only feet from a dark-haired human, his plate armor covered by a tabard emblazoned with the golden lion of Stormwind, and they’re reaching out to each other. Tyri’el frowns, seeing the emotion in both of their eyes, and his mind searches frantically for some kind of explanation. Hadn’t Violet mentioned she’d had adoptive brothers, and that she’d fled before she could confirm if anyone had survived the gnoll attack? A flicker of hope rises above the confusion, and he thinks briefly that it would do wonders for Violet to have someone from her family alive and well.

All at once, that hope ends like the shattering of a window. Violet arches up and pulls the man to her, their lips meeting with tangible relief for them both. The kiss is too desperate, too wanting, to mark it as anything less than an embrace shared between former lovers. They break apart, still cradling each other, and all Tyri’el can do is stand, frozen, and pray that this is some cruel nightmare. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up, to open his eyes and find Violet curled up in his arms so he can reassure himself that she’s his.

But the noise of the city continues around him, and he opens his eyes, finding much the same scene across the square. They’re clinging to each other, and he’s running his hand through her hair, wiping away tears and kissing her gently and she’s _smiling_.

Confusion gives way to to a sudden flare of anger, the white-hot rage rearing up inside of him like the roaring of a waking dragon. Possessiveness has never been in his purview, but everything in him is screaming to push through the crowd and rip her away from this strange human who thinks himself able to embrace her like that. This is supposed to be their time, their new beginning. Some small part of him, the broken child always present within his heart, cries out and begs him to go to her and plead for her love.

Instead, he turns on his heels and walks away, disappearing into the crowd without so much as a backward glance, leaving the humans to their reunion.

“You’re here,” Dacian whispers, repeating the words over and over like a mantra, like a prayer. He presses his cheek to the crown of Violet’s head as he holds her, and with his arms around her, she can feel him shaking with each ragged breath.

“Did anyone else…did anyone…” Violet can’t bring herself to finish the thought, let alone the sentence. Every ounce of guilt she’s carried since that hellish day now weighs a hundred times heavier on her shoulders.

“No,” he replies, followed by a deep sigh. “Mar was alive when I reached camp but…she didn’t…she was bleeding too heavily…”

“Light,” Violet breathes, her fingers curling into white-knuckled fists grasping at his tabard. “She made me run, blackbird. I didn’t want to, but she was—”

“I know.” Dacian’s voice takes on the soft, gentle tone he always saves just for her, and he pulls back to look down at her. “She saved your life.”

“But I ran. I could have stayed and fought. I could have helped. I—”

“And you could have just as easily died.”

“I would have, if it meant I—”

“Don’t say such a thing.” Dacian’s hold on her tightens. “Don’t.”

“Forgive me,” Violet says softly, blinking away tears. “I never would have stayed away for so long had I known…”

“And I would have done everything in my power to find you if I had more than a prayer for a miracle.” Despite his tears and shuddering breaths, Dacian manages to smile. “But you’re here now. I have you back. That’s all that matters.”

A passerby bumps into them, and Dacian guides Violet away from the middle of the street. Runeweaver Square is just across the way, and they find a bench to sit on away from anyone else. On any other day, it might have been a beautiful place to sit, but Violet’s heart is beating too wildly, her mind running in frantic circles to try to make sense of his presence.

“I don’t understand,” she says, smoothing at the wrinkles she’d embedded into the crisp blue fabric of his tabard. “I was so sure that you…that those things had killed everyone. How in Light’s name did you escape them?”

“I wasn’t at camp when they attacked. I’d woken up early and gone down to the Loch.” Dacian encircles her hands with his where they rest on his chest. “Remember, we’d seen the waterlilies the day before, and you said they reminded you of your mother. I wanted to pick some in time for breakfast.”

Through her tears, Violet finds herself smiling.

“I heard someone scream, and I could smell the smoke and…” Shaking his head, Dacian closes his eyes for a moment. “Some of the dwarves could see the smoke from Thelsamar, and they came, but it was too late. The gnolls were gone and everyone was dead. I thought…Light, I thought you’d been...”

“I went to pick briarberries,” Violet says, forcing herself to recall every painful detail from that morning for the first time since it happened. “I had a whole basket of them by the time I heard the screams. When I got to camp I…everything was on fire, and there was so much blood I couldn’t breathe. She…she took over and she made me run.”

Violet looks at their hands where they rest on his chestplate, and she pulls hers back, staring down at them.

“My ring. I took it off so it wouldn’t get bloody if the thorns pricked at my fingers. I left it in the tent and…oh, blackbird, I lost your grandmother’s ring.”

“No,” Dacian says, reaching under the collar of his plate to pull out a thin chain. Hanging from it is a simple golden ring, the band twisted into two flowers that cradle a sparkling diamond. Violet gasps, reaching out to touch it. Dacian pulls the chain from his neck, unclasping it to free the ring. “I found it once the fires had gone out. The dwarves had already moved the bodies for burial and I thought…I’ve kept it on me always.”

Taking her left hand, he slides the ring onto her finger. A small cry of agonized relief escapes him, and he squeezes her hands and lifts them to his lips.

“I suppose I get to ask you again,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “Will you still marry me?”

“I…” Violet’s stomach flutters, and somewhere in the city, a bell chimes twice to mark the hour. The surreal haze dissipates in an instant, and every detail she’s been neglecting comes back at full force. Tyri’el will be looking for her soon. A sick feeling settles over her as she struggles to reconcile everything she’s feeling, and she unconsciously pulls her hands back to wrap them around her necklace. Light, how can she explain this to either one of them? She’s given herself fully to Tyri’el because she’s believed Dacian was dead since the moment her other self forced her to flee, but now that he’s here, she can’t deny how much of her heart still belongs to him. And how can she explain falling in love with a blood elf? Dacian will understand, she tells herself, he’ll see that she’d never stopped loving him, but she’d thought him dead and she was alone and lost without him and—

“Vi?” Dacian watches her with worried anticipation, his voice jolting her from her frantic thoughts. She bites her lip, hot tears of shame and indecision spilling down her cheeks.

“I’m not the same woman I was when we parted,” Violet says, forcing herself to look at him. “So much has happened these last few years.”

“And I am not the same man.” He takes her hands, gently easing them from around her locket until they rest where their knees touch on the bench. “I’ve mourned you in every moment since the day I lost you, but never in that time did I once cease to love you.”

“Nor did I. I’ve carried you with me always, but…” Violet sighs, willing herself to just say what needs to be said.

“Please, Vi. I hate who I’ve become without you.” Dacian’s voice breaks, and Violet finds herself reaching up to brush away the tears that fall from the pale blue eyes that had once felt like home.

“I said yes once,” Violet begins, and for a moment, her confession is on the tip of her tongue, but Dacian looks up at her and she can’t bring herself to speak what’s in her heart. He’s broken because of her, because she was a coward, too weak to fight for her family, and for him. Without another thought, she speaks. “My answer has never changed, blackbird.”

Dacian blinks, her words taking a moment to sink in, before his anguished expression turns into one of relief and joy. He pulls her into a desperate kiss, and for the moment, she allows it to push away the gnawing, screaming guilt clouding her conscience.

“To find you here, of all places,” he says when they break apart, and he smooths her bangs back behind her ear. “What are you doing in Dalaran, little moon?”

The guilt returns tenfold, and the hot flush of panic creeps up her spine. Caught in a violent tug-of-war between knowing she owes him the truth and fearing what he might say or do if she reveals that truth, she speaks the first thing that comes to mind.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Dacian’s brow furrows, and for one long, excruciating moment, she fears he’s going to insist that she tell him. Instead, he shakes his head.

“You’re right. I have my miracle, and that’s much more than I deserve.”

“You’ve always deserved more than me,” Violet replies, both ashamed and relieved that her deflection worked. It’s a terrible thing to have done, but he’s always trusted her far too much for his own good. But until now, she thinks bitterly, she’s never had a reason to be anything but honest with him. “Why are you here?”

“It’s father’s birthday,” Dacian says, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The king gave me the afternoon and evening off to attend the party.”

“The king? Since when does the mighty Varian Wrynn delegate time off for one city guard?”

“A lot has changed since you left, Vi. I’m not a city guard anymore.” He clears away the rest of the tears from his cheeks. “I went from dock patrols to a lieutenant overseeing harbor security, and then to a member of the Royal Guard after King Varian returned from Kalimdor. Once Onyxia was killed, Highlord Fordragon had SI:7 go over every keep staff member with a fine-toothed comb. I’d been installed during the broodmother’s time in Stormwind, but I had no ties to her flight, and no love lost when she was slain, so I was allowed to stay on.”

“A royal guard then?”

“Captain of, actually.” A small flicker of a smile crosses his lips, replaced almost immediately with a frown. “The brass saw a guard who took every available shift and risked himself for king and country. They didn’t see a man with nothing left to live for but his work.”

Violet takes his hands, unable to speak at his confession, and he meets her eyes.

“I have been lost without you, my love,” he says, putting his hand to her cheek. “But I don’t need to be that man anymore.”

“No, of course you don’t,” Violet says, forcing up a smile despite the turmoil swirling inside her.

“Come,” Dacian says, standing and pulling her to her feet. “We still have time before father’s party. They will be…well, I suppose I don’t have to wonder anymore over what to give him as a present.”

“Wait, I…” Violet begins to protest, but her words fall away when she tries and fails to come up with an explanation. Tyri’el will be looking for her, and if he sees her with Dacian…Light above, what a hellish mess she’s brought upon herself. The window for coming clean and telling Dacian about Tyri’el grows smaller every second, but he’s been so broken, so lost…how can she possibly tell him she’s fallen in love with someone else? She needs to stall. “Let me go get my things. I’ll only be a moment.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Legerdemain Lounge. Wait here, I won’t be long.”

“Vi, wait,” Dacian says, taking her hand before she can move out of his reach. “Let me come with you. I’m…I’m afraid you might just…disappear if I let you out of my sight.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

“I know, it’s just that…this still feels like a dream. If I do have to wake up, I want every last minute with you that I can grasp.”

“This isn’t a dream,” Violet says, and a cruel voice echoes inside her head, telling her that it’s not a dream, but instead, a nightmare. Still, she sighs and pulls him along with her. They leave Runeweaver Square and turn the corner, following the curve of the buildings until they come upon the eastern door of the Lounge. Violet stops on the first step, holding her arms up to halt him. “Just wait here. Please.”

Dacian nods uncertainly but stays put, and Violet tries not to look panicked as she enters the inn and avoids the curious gaze of the patrons as she rushes to the stairs. Once she’s safely out of sight, she covers her face with her hands and tries to calm herself away form hyperventilation. Time, she needs more time to think of something. In the back of her mind, in that dark spot she keeps hidden, her other self slinks forward to curl her claws around the bars of her cage.

_Run, girl. You needn’t explain a thing if neither of them can find you. I will carry you to safety._

“No,” Violet says through teeth clenched so tight her jaw aches. A throaty laugh is the only response, and she feels her other self slink back into the shadows, still close enough to pounce should her jailer’s guard slip.

All she’s ever done is run away. She can’t leave them behind, no matter how badly she wishes this would all go away. It’s ultimately futile, she knows, but she still finds herself wishing she could go back to only an hour ago, when she had her whole life with Tyri’el ahead of her, and there was no catastrophe looming so close by. There are no words to describe how elated she is to have Dacian alive and with her again, but it’s all too much to bear. The stairwell starts to feel as if it’s closing in on her, and she races to the top, her heart hammering in her chest.

Time, she just needs a bit more bloody time!

Violet drags her hands down her face, feeling like a rabbit cornered amidst a pack of starving wolves, and begs the Light for an answer. She knows Tyri’el will be looking for her, and will be back to the room when he finds she’s not at the fountain, and that Dacian will not wait forever before coming up to find her. The last thing she needs is them coming face to face with each other, with her in the middle, and her racing thoughts do absolutely nothing to help her fraying nerves.

A note. She can just leave Tyri’el a note. She’ll tell him she ran into an old friend and will be back within a few hours. He’ll believe that, won’t he? Of course he will. She’s always been too good at lying, at making him see what she wants him to. Oh, what a wicked soul she has, to be playing on his blind trust of her. It’s her only chance, she realizes, to buy herself just a little more time to sort through this mess of her own creation. Light, can’t she do anything right?

The door to their room is unlocked, and she enters quickly, shutting the door behind her before turning to search for something to write on. She stops mid-glance, eyes finding not parchment, but Tyri’el, sitting on the bed with his back facing the door.

_You can still run, girl. Just open the door and—_

Tyri’el hears the door open, hears the scuff of Violet’s boots on the floor, and her soft gasp when she sees him. He doesn’t turn to look at her, his eyes fixed on his balled fists and the single trail of blood dripping from between his fingers where his nails dig into his palm. His eyes sting, and he takes in a shaky breath, his throat burning from barely-contained screams.

_She will find another, make no mistake about it._

For the hundredth time, his father’s words come back to him. He lashes out in his thoughts, screaming back into the darkness that no, there has to be some explanation, some rational reason that she—

_You know that’s not true. You’ve always known you don’t deserve her. What could a weak, stupid, pathetic child like you ever possibly have to offer her?_

This voice belongs to Soven. Every failure in his life, everything he was never good enough for, comes crashing down onto his shoulders, nearly suffocating him. He was a fool to think this would last. A damned idiot to think that she really loved him, that he was ever going to have something like a happy ending. If his life is like one of Senna’s fairy stories, it’s always going to be the ones that end with heartache and loneliness. His chest feels like there’s some small beast trying to claw its way free, each heartbeat ringing in his ears.

Outwardly, Tyri’el only lets out a short exhale through his nose.

“I didn’t expect you’d be here,” Violet says, and he hears her careful steps behind him.

_No, she didn’t think you would see her, did she? She was so clever, so careful in her betrayal._

Tyri’el shakes his head to expel the hiss of his father’s voice, trying to break free of the rapid spiraling of his thoughts, and only one question comes when he forces himself to speak.

“Who is he?” He counts the seconds it takes her to answer, each of them passing like a punch to the gut. One, two, three…

_Lies! It will always be lies from her! She never loved you, never cared. You are nothing to her._

“Who is he?” He repeats, hating himself for how small and broken his voice sounds, like a child pleading.

“He’s…” Violet sighs, and he hears the rustle of fabric as she shifts. “He’s my betrothed.”

_Someone else will win her heart, someone she thinks better than you. You will beg and plead and grasp at empty air with wanting fingers, but in the end, you will be left alone._

Another echo of his last words with his father, and they cut him as deep as any knife. The last failing part of his rational mind tells him that she would never hurt him willingly, that there’s a reason for this and he needs to ask her to explain herself, but the demons chittering inside his head drown out the words. Hurt morphs into anger, and like a wounded animal, he lashes out at her as a last, desperate act of self-defense.

“Get out,” he says, and though the strained words are soft, he knows Violet can hear him.

“Tyri’el,” Violet begins, that same hot panic creeping over her again.

“I don’t…I don’t want to hear it,” Tyri’el growls, still not turning to look at her.

“Listen to me,” she replies, coming around the bed to stand in front of him. The metallic tang of blood meets her nose, and she looks down, seeing the trails of red oozing from between his fingers. “Light, don’t do that. Don’t hurt your—”

Tyri’el yanks his hands away from her as soon as her fingers touch them, and he stands from the bed, moving away from her.

_Lies! This is who you gave your heart to? Someone who so callously tosses you aside for someone else? She never loved you. You are not worthy of love._

“Tyri’el, please,” Violet says, reaching out to him, but she can’t bring herself to move any closer. Her other self is right against the bars of her cage, goading her, and she can feel the rush of adrenaline starting to flood into her veins. “I can explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain.”

“Just listen to me.”

“No,” Tyri’el snaps, finally turning to face her. Her face is red and one arm is still raised, reaching out to him. Some part of him wants to take her hand, to just pull her close and beg her not to leave, but the other thoughts are louder, drowning out the wailing child within him. “Get out.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Not until you listen to me.” Forcing her other self away from the edges of her consciousness, Violet roots herself in place. He’s been crying, and his hands are still balled hard enough to draw blood. This is all her fault, but he’ll understand if she can just explain herself. That there was never any contest for her affections, that she absolutely loves him with everything she is.

“There’s nothing to explain. I understand.”

“You…no, listen to me.” She searches for the right words, but nothing seems to make sense, so she pleads with the only constant she has left. “I love you, Tyri’el. Please, you have to believe that I—”

“I can’t believe you,” Tyri’el says, shaking his head hard enough that he almost loses his balance. “Did you ever love me? Even a little bit?”

“Of course I did! I still do. Please, you need to know that I thought—”

_Liar! False! Betrayed!_

“Get out.” His voice is a low growl now, and his body shakes to keep him from lashing out with the arcane surge roiling just beneath his skin.

“No.” She’ll hold him down and make him listen if she has to. He’ll understand if she can just tell him—

“Then I’ll go.” Tyri’el grabs his knapsack from the bed, already packed since the moment he got back to the room. He needs to get out of here, out of this room, this inn, this damned city. This place that he thought could—

“Don’t go,” Violet says, meaning it as a command, but it comes out as little more than a broken plea as she grabs him by the arm when he tries to push past her. Her hand stings as energy nips at the skin like tiny electric shocks, but she holds him despite the pain. She can’t lose him, not now. This is not how it was supposed to happen.

“Don’t try to follow me,” Tyri’el says, prying her hand off of his arm with more force than he knew he possessed.

“You promised me,” Violet says, palm slamming against the door to keep it shut when he reaches for it. “You said that—”

“I know what I said.” Tyri’el looks over at her, and the anger once again ebbs back into hurt. “And I regret it.”

“Please. Don’t do this. I can explain.” Violet finds herself babbling, saying anything and everything she can think to just get him to listen to her, to stop and let her explain. To not leave her, not like everyone else. “I need you. Please.”

“You don’t need me,” Tyri’el says, forcing the door open against her failing strength. She doesn’t need him. She never did. His only regret is that he didn’t realize it sooner. “And I don’t need you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Tyri’el says nothing, leaving the room with his shame following him like a wraith. Violet stands in the doorway, too numb to move, barely coherent enough to remember to breathe. That grating voice in her head tells her to break something, to destroy everything he ever touched, but she stays still, pleading with herself to just wake up. None of this is real.

Dacian is still waiting for her when she comes outside, her bag over her shoulder and her face washed to try to hide the redness in her cheeks. He smiles that same radiant smile, the one that used to bring heat to her cheeks and a flutter to her gut, but now all it brings is a reminder of the gaping hole in her chest that threatens to tear her clean in two. He offers her his hand, and she takes it, the warmth of his skin barely registering.

None of this is real.

Dacian pulls her close, pressing a kiss of the crown of her head, and they walk along the red-paved street like they have so many times before.

None of this is real.

“I love you, little moon,” he says, smiling down at her.

“I love you, too,” she replies on reflex, even though it’s true.

All of this is real.

 


	50. Farther Apart

"You’re certain they’ll want to see me?”

Violet hesitates, and Dacian looks back at her, his hand lingering on wrought-iron latch of the front gate.

“Of course they will,” he says, dark brows drawing together. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“I suppose…I thought that if I ever came back here, they would hate me.”

“What for?”

“I let you die…” Violet says, and the absurdity of her statement is quick to dawn on her. A small, nervous smile crosses her lips, one that she feels has no business being there, and she sighs.

“I know that guilt,” Dacian says, taking her cheek in his hand, and he seems to marvel at the feel of her skin. “It’s haunted me since that day. But…”

His eyes search her face, and Violet begins to notice all the subtle ways he’s changed since they lost each other. Faint dark circles ring his eyes, like he’s gotten only barely enough sleep to ward off the full look of fatigue, and his eyes themselves seem harder. They’d once been soft and open, like a shallow pool of sparkling water, but now they’re more like that same pool has been steeled over with a layer of ice. He looks _old_ , she realizes with a sinking in her chest, so much older than a man only two years her senior has any right to look. His face still holds youth, but his eyes betray the somber wisdom of someone forced to deal with the harsh truth of mortality far too early. Does she look so different to him? Her eyes have always been hard, at least since he’s known her. Tyri’el’s are, too, when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Violet shakes her head with a sick lurch in her gut.

“You don’t need to feel guilty,” she says, hoping the words meant for him will have some effect on her.

“Neither do you,” Dacian replies, and he pulls her against his chest, holding her close.

“It will take time to unlearn it.”

“We have all the time in the world, little moon.”

His words hit her like a knife between the ribs. Tyri’el had told her the same thing, not…Light, has it only been a few days since they’d been in Silvermoon? Since they’d made love and he’d promised her she would never have to live without him? She tastes bile at the back of her throat and her head spins, first from fresh, raw grief, and then from a white-hot lash of anger.

_I know what I said, and I regret it._

How easily he’d revoked his promise. Everything she’d allowed herself to believe, every honeyed word she’d grasped at like a wanting child…they were all lies. She’d known, somewhere deep in her heart, that she would lose him, but it was always the threat of death looming over him like a guillotine. It was never a change of heart, never envenomed words, sharp and wielded like a weapon. It was easier to accept the inevitable loss when it came with the knowledge that he would not leave her of choice, but to know that he could cast her aside so easily…

_You don’t need me, and I don’t need you._

Another snarl of rage sounds within her, but it doesn’t come from the beast lurking in the shadows. It’s her own voice, her own heart, and it’s like a shard of hot metal against the gaping wound in her chest, cauterizing and searing away the raw hurt. Perhaps Tyri’el had been right on that count.

She _doesn’t_ need him.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

“Don’t ever…” Dacian begins, the hitch in his breath drawing Violet from her thoughts. His heartbeat against her ear soothes at the fury still festering in her chest, and she pushes it away as she pulls back to look up at him. He meets her eyes, his own ringed with red. “Don’t ever make me have to live without you again.”

“Never,” Violet replies, and the conviction that overcomes her grounds her in the present. She will keep promises, if no one else will.

Relief is tangible in Dacian’s face, and he lets out a soft breath before leaning down to kiss her. It’s soft, hesitant almost, as if he still doesn’t believe that she’s real. It reminds Violet of a time long since passed, when they were younger and stupider and luckier. When their world was so much simpler.

“Will you return to Stormwind with me?” Dacian rests his forehead against hers, their eyes still closed with their lips nearly touching. Violet pauses, envisioning the high white walls and the smell of the sea, and for the first time since she thought she’d lost him, the memory of the city doesn’t stir dread within her. It had been those memories, of sneaking from her room in the dead of night for walks along the beach and of huddling close in the autumn chill to watch the Wicker Man set alight, that would set her heart racing whenever she dared allow them to cross her mind. Now, without the threat of angry ghosts and the empty spaces of stolen futures, she remembers Stormwind for what is was - her home. The place she’d been brought to at first as a prisoner, and then welcomed as a daughter and friend. Somewhere she’d belonged. Somewhere, now, she might yet find some scrap of peace amongst the chaos in her heart.

“Yes,” she says, forcing up a wall to block out the part of her mind screaming at her that she doesn’t belong in Stormwind. It tries to tell her that this is wrong, that she can’t give up and give in and go with him. Fight, it tells her, find Tyri’el and make him see that you love him. It wails inside her, keening like a banshee and rising above the wall no matter how hard she tries to drown it out.

“We can start over,” Dacian says, and his soft words cut through the battle raging inside her head. The murmur of her grief still skirts around the edge of her conscience, repeating like the low beat of a war drum, but she opens her eyes and forces herself to look at him, at the man who had once been the only point of light in the darkness clouding her life. “It can be as if none of this ever happened.”

Light above, how she wants to believe that. To just forget about every night spent crying herself into exhaustion, every screamed plea the Light would not answer. But even Violet knows that things like that are not so easily cast aside. That grief, that all-consuming guilt is a part of her, as much as the blood in her veins and the beating of her heart.

“It happened,” she says finally. “But it doesn’t need to rule us any longer.”

Dacian takes in a breath, hesitating as if he’s weighing her words, and he opens his eyes.

“No. It doesn’t.” He smooths at her hair, his other hand twining with one of hers, and offers a small smile, the kind he’s always saved just for her. She returns it, albeit less certainly, and follows him through the front gate into the courtyard. They pass the small fountain and Violet can’t help but smile when she sees the magnolia tree near one corner of the house, the one magicked into growing tall enough that she and Dacian could easily scale to get in or out of the second story window at the top. They move around the manor house and to the back yard, where a handful of servants are busy setting up rows of tables and chairs for the party. They don’t seem to notice the newcomers, and Dacian and Violet slip in through one of the side doors that leads into the kitchen.

“Oh, Master Dacian,” a woman in her late fifties says, wiping her hands on her apron as she looks up at the door. Her eyes widen and she drops her rolling pin when she sets eyes on Violet, who only smiles. “Miss…Miss Violet?”

Dacian lifts a finger to his lips.

“Where are my parents?”

“Upstairs, in their…upstairs.” The cook stumbles over her words, but falls silent, watching the couple leave the kitchen. They move through a small hallway and into a drawing room of sorts, crossing the space to emerge into a large foyer at the front of the house. A staircase curves up on either side of the room, and they ascend it quietly, each step feeling more weighted than the last for Violet. She knows that Dacian’s parents have no reason to hate her now, that she didn’t leave their son to die, but the years of dread still gnaw at her despite her silent reassurances. At the top of the stairs, they turn right, moving down the hallway towards the door Violet knows leads to his parent’s bedroom, and she unconsciously grips harder at his hand. He squeezes it in return, dropping it as they approach the door that is open just a crack. Two voices float out, both achingly familiar, and Violet bites at her lower lip. Dacian holds up his hand to signal she should stay put, and takes a deep breath before pushing open the door.

“My heart, you came.” It’s Dacian’s mother, and she sounds incredibly surprised. Violet frowns at her tone, hearing the rustle of fabric as she embraces her son. “What’s the matter? You look…upset.”

“Not upset,” Dacian says, though the strain in his voice makes his words unconvincing. “I’m…”

“What’s happened, my boy?” It’s his father that speaks now, and again, Violet finds the tone unnerving. There’s something unspoken in both of his parent’s voices, something she can’t quite place, but it makes her heart ache nonetheless.

“It…it will be easier to show you.” Footsteps, then the door opens wider and Dacian grabs her hand to pull her into the room. His parents stand to one side of the room in front of a tall mirror, presumably in the middle of dressing for the party when their son came in. Both stand utterly still, their eyes as wide as the cook’s had been, both of them staring at her as she enters. His mother takes an uncertain step forward, looking at her son with her mouth open but saying nothing. Dacian’s father, never one prone to displaying much emotion, seems on the verge of tears, though his face is twisted in confusion.

“Light’s love…Violet?” Marian takes another step towards them, still looking between her son and Violet with near frantic uncertainty. Her long, black hair is more streaked with silver near the temples than Violet remembers, but she still has the same matronly air and the clear blue eyes she shares with her son.

“How is this possible?” Renaud asks, following his wife and putting a cautionary hand on her shoulder. A hum of energy surrounds him, reaching out and pricking at Violet’s skin, and his shoulders relax when he finds that she is no illusion or conjured being.

“It’s her,” Dacian says, pulling Violet with him until they meet his parents in the middle of the room. Marian reaches out and touches Violet’s shoulder, her confusion giving way to relief when she feels the solid warmth of the very real young woman in front of her. She pulls Violet into a hug, weeping openly as she cradles the back of her head.

“I thought you a ghost,” Marian says through her tears, and pulls back to look Violet over. “You’re alive. After all this time thinking you gone at the hands of those beasts.”

Renaud still seems uncertain, approaching more cautiously as he shoots his son a questioning look.

“They didn’t harm me,” Violet says, blinking hard to clear her eyes of the tears collected there. “I fled and I…”

“Hush, child,” Marian says, hugging her tight again. “There will be plenty of time to explain later.”

“It’s truly her?” Renaud asks, and his wife turns to him and beckons him closer. He, too, looks older, but as he comes to stand beside his wife, Violet notes he still smells the same, like the musk of old books and the light, airy scent of arcane energy. Again, he seems to check her over for any kind of spell or trick, but finding none, he finally touches her arm before joining his wife in embracing her.

“This is beyond a miracle.” Marian looks to her son, caressing his cheek with the faintest of smiles. “You can never again say the Light has forsaken you, my heart.”

Violet startles at her words, looking away from Renaud to cast a worried gaze at Dacian, who hesitantly meets her eyes. There’s a stark pain held there, and Violet’s heart sinks to imagine him having lost his faith in the time they’d been apart, and all on her account.

“What’s all this noise? Are you two fighting over that cravat again?” A new voice sounds from the door, and the footsteps there halt suddenly. Violet turns, finding the doorway filled with another dark-haired young man, a few years older than Dacian but so similar in features that it would be nearly impossible to mistake him as anything other than his brother. He blinks twice, gripping the door frame as if to keep himself upright, and stammers as he speaks. “Vi-Violet?”

“Barrett,” Violet says, half a laugh caught in the name. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh of his own and crosses the room in a few easy strides, tugging her into a tight hug. His uniform, the deep blue and bright gold of the Alliance Navy, smells of sea air, and Violet bites the inside of her cheek to stifle the reflexive ache that starts in her chest at the familiar scent. Without saying anything else to her, Barrett rushes back to the door and sticks his head out into the hallway. “Lan, your arse is toast! Dace has you beat for best present by a league and a half!”

“Bothering to show up for the party hardly counts as a present, little brother.” Another voice comes from down the hall, and a third raven-haired young man enters the room, arms crossed over his chest with a thoroughly unimpressed look on his face. He looks from Barrett to his parents, then to Dacian, his pale blue eyes finally settling on Violet where she stands in the midst of the rest of his family. A frown overcomes him and he uncrosses his arms. “Where the hell have you been, then?”

“Landon,” Marian cautions, her hand still resting on Violet’s arm.

“No, I want to know.” Landon comes into the room, stopping a few feet in front of Violet and crossing his arms over his chest again. “Two and a half years you’ve been gone, off doing Light knows what while I - while all of us - had to watch my brother—”

“That is quite enough, Lan,” Dacian says, a hard, commanding edge to his voice that sends an involuntary shudder through Violet. She turns to looks at him, finding his face cold and his jaw set, a look that she’s never seen him give, and one that is wholly unlike him in every way. He’s always been soft-spoken and kind, never one to give orders or speak so harshly. The two brothers glare at each other, and Landon finally looks away, an angry sigh escaping him.

“As you like, little brother.” Landon’s eyes flick to Violet, his lips pursed in a thin line. “Welcome back, I suppose.”

He leaves the room, and an uncomfortable silence descends on the remaining occupants. Violet bites back tears, closing her eyes against the rising tide of questions and guilt building in her chest. A hand comes on her shoulder and she opens her eyes, finding Barrett beside her, offering a reassuring smile.

“Don’t mind him, Vi,” he says, casually looking her over before his eyes return to hers. “Whatever kept you away this long, I’m sure you had your reasons. We’re glad to have you back, whatever they are.”

“Thanks,” Violet says quietly, and Barrett squeezes her shoulder with another small smile.

“Will you stay for the party?” Marian asks, her expression softening as she looks from the door to Violet. “We’ve so much time to make up for.”

“I…” Violet begins, looking to Dacian in question. He’s still frowning, but it fades when he meets her eyes, and he gives her a short nod. Violet forces up a smile, one that doesn’t touch her eyes, and nods. “Of course.”

Marian relaxes, smiling through her tears, and takes Violet’s cheeks in her hands.

“You’ve been so sorely missed, my dear.”

“By all of us,” Renaud says, giving Violet a rare, genuine smile.

“By none more so than me.” Dacian takes Violet’s hands, tugging her gently to him. Looking up at him, into those beautiful blue eyes, it’s easy for Violet to pretend that this is the reunion she’s prayed for, that for once, something good comes to her without consequence. It’s a short-lived fantasy, however, and her thoughts once again drift to Tyri’el. Where did he go when he left her at the inn? Is he still in the city? Surely she could just—

“Let’s give them a few moments, shall we, dear?” Marion says, taking her husband gently by the arm and leading him from the room. The door closes behind them with a soft click, and Dacian pulls her into a desperate kiss. Not a wanting embrace, but one that reminds her too much of Tyri’el, holding onto her like a drowning man struggling to stay above water. It’s too similar, and Violet feels herself detaching from the present, clinging to him and praying for the strength to make it through the next few hours.

 

—

 

Tyri’el rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, struggling to keep them in focus enough to read the words on the page before him. He’s well into his third book, though most of what he’s read has merely bounced around in his head as meaningless sounds. The Grand Library within the Violet Citadel is fairly busy this time of day, not yet late enough for people to be headed home for supper, but well after the last classes have let out for the day. Despite the presence of numerous other people, the sound-dampening spells placed throughout the cavernous space allow him a relative amount of silence in which to wallow. Occasionally, the laughter of a group of students will make its way to him and startle him out of his trance-like state, but for the most part, he’s left to his own thoughts. Rather, to try to drown them out with an endless stream of knowledge forced on himself to quiet his mind.

It only barely works. Each time he finds his thoughts lingering on their…whatever it was, he violently yanks himself from that train of thought, cursing himself and looking for anything else to fill his mind with. Still, he finds himself thinking of it over and over again, and each time, he forces the emotions - the rage, the hurt, the utter darkness in his heart - to quiet, like lulling a rabid beast to sleep long enough for a few moments of safety. It’s unhealthy, and he knows it, but allowing himself to feel nothing at all is the only way he can keep himself from falling to pieces.

It's taken some time, but he’s finally stopped replaying his father’s final words to him, though the sentiment still lingers. No matter how much he’d told himself he’s nothing like the once-prince, he can’t help but draw parallels in the brief moments it takes to turn a page or flip open a new tome. Kael’thas had fallen in love with a human, though it was wholly unrequited, but still, he’d been bitter. Violet is nothing like Jaina Proudmoore, save perhaps for the color of her hair, but she’d still chosen a human when presented with the choice.

Or had she? He hadn’t allowed her to explain herself, and though part of him wishes now that he would have, a much larger part doesn’t want to know the answers to the questions buzzing around in his head like a swarm of angry bees. It’s too late now, he tells himself, she’s likely already back in Stormwind with whoever that man is. Her betrothed, she’d said, and the idea starts a sick ache in his gut, both for the implications of the word, and because it brings up unbidden thoughts of Capernian.

They had been betrothed once, happy and with their whole lives ahead of them before the Scourge came and his father went insane under the ministrations of the Burning Legion. The hypocrisy of the situation is not lost on him - has he any right to feel such rage at her for keeping her past betrothal a secret when he, himself, never told her about his? The way they had looked at each other, the awe on their faces when they’d reunited…even from a distance, it had been clear to him that it was not a planned separation. What had torn Violet from this man to warrant such an emotional reunion?

Even if he could muster the courage to seek her out - which he in no way believes he can - what in Belore’s name could he even say? The hissing voices would only return, and he would be left a cowering mess once again. Pride is not in his nature, but he finds that he can’t bear the thought of facing her after what he’d said in his shock. He’d promised her forever, and to take back those words so callously…it’s a sore spot that only grows each time his thoughts stray far enough to touch on the memory again. It’s just on more thing he’s ruined in his life, one more beautiful piece of hope dashed by his utter—

Tyri’el slams shut his book, sending up a plume of dust and garnering several annoyed stares from other patrons of the library. Of all things to draw his ire, not knowing something and being unable to find an answer is at the very top of the list. The hurt, the raw sear of betrayal, is still fresh in his chest, and keeping his mind busy has done little to ease the pain.

This is not how it was supposed to happen. If only he’d held off on coming to Dalaran for even another day, they would still be together with their whole future ahead of them. They could have found peace, the kind that he’d never known and thought he would never have. They could have been married and found some far corner of the world to hide away in, just the two of them. He thinks of his daydream of their children, bright and beautiful like their mother…it all fades away into smoke, and he finds himself clenching his fists again.

“Margrave Sunfury?”

A young mage wearing robes emblazoned with the eye of the Kirin Tor approaches the table he’s occupying, and she waits patiently for him to look up at her.

“I am he,” he says, unclenching his fists under the table and feigning casualty. She seems relieved, smiling politely as she speaks.

“Aethas Sunreaver sent me to find you. He wishes to speak with you in his office.”

Tyri’el thanks her and waves his hands to send his stack of books floating onto a nearby return cart, rising from his chair and rubbing his eyes to clear the lingering stinging before leaving the library. He finds Aethas in his office, changed from his previous casual attire to a more formal set of magister’s robes, complete with the golden sigil over his chest that marks him as an honored graduate of the Royal Academy for Arcane Arts. Tyri’el had one once, but it was lost amongst the wreckage of Silvemoon, and he had no desire to seek it out during the reconstruction efforts.

“You called for me?” He says, and Aethas turns from his desk, quirking an eyebrow at his thinly-veiled distress, but he says nothing of it.

“The Council of Six is ready to meet with us.” The younger elf plucks a piece of parchment from his desk and hands it to Tyri’el, who blinks to try to focus his tired eyes on what it says. The corners of Aethas’s mouth turn down. “It’s an approval for Miss Devereaux’s citizenship. It’s only necessary temporarily, given the shift, and I will still need to push it through to a few more desks, but—”

“Thank you,” Tyri’el says, cutting him off. He folds the parchment and stuffs it into his pocket, just as gruffly shoving away the thoughts of the subject to be dealt with at a later time. Again, Aethas looks at him in question but doesn’t voice his curiosity.

“They’ll be waiting for us upstairs,” he says, taking a stack of yet more parchment and holding it in the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”

“After you,” Tyri’el says, and follows Aethas from his office. The labyrinthine halls of the Citadel pass in a blur as he tries to force his mind into a state of calm blankness, but he keeps drawing himself back into the events of only a few hours before without intending to. He’d washed the blood from his hands, but the crescent-shaped indents from his fingernails are still present, and they sting with the sweat making his hands clammy as his nerves rise.

Violet had pleaded with him, had invoked the promise he’d made, and he’d just left. The one thing he’d sworn never to do.

_Ever a coward. A scared child running from everything for fear of being outed as a failure._

Tyri’el shakes his head to chase away Soven’s voice, focusing on the rhythmic sound of Aethas’s footsteps ahead of him to try to drown out the voices of panic and uncertainty that rise at the edges of his mind. He has to focus now, not on anything but the task at hand. This is a monumental undertaking, one that cannot in any way be compromised by his shortcomings. He finds himself praying for the strength to just make it through this meeting.

Ahead of him, Aethas stops, and Tyri’el almost runs into him in his distracted state. He looks around with no idea where they are or how they got there, finding that they’re standing before a great set of double doors, flanked on either side by a war-mage in full armor.

“Ready to make history?” Aethas asks, turning to face him with a smile that barely masks the underlying nervousness showing behind his eyes. Tyri’el only nods, hoping he looks pensive in his silence rather than terrified. Aethas nods to himself, pushing open one of the doors. Beyond them is a round room, the high-reaching ceiling topped with a dome of glittering purple glass, and Tyri’el realizes from the shape that they must be at the very top of the Citadel’s spire. The room itself is fairly plain, filled only with a large round table surrounded on one side by six chairs, with two chairs sitting on the opposite side.

The Council of Six waits silently as they enter, appraising them with everything from mild curiosity to downright excitement. On the left half sit two humans, both middle-aged, one with auburn hair and matching beard, the other balding with near-black hair. On the right half is an older human woman with graying hair, sitting next to an empty chair. In the middle of the group sits Khadgar and another human with copper-colored hair, who smiles warmly at the two elves as they enter. The sheer power of the group assembled is nearly tangible in the air, and Tyri’el sits beside Aethas opposite them with as much grace and dignity as his nerves afford him.

“Magister Sunreaver, Margrave Sunfury, welcome,” Khadgar says, grinning with boyish enthusiasm.

“It is an honor to have two incredibly talented sin’dorei magisters in our city, and in this room,” the redheaded human says, and the other members of the Council murmur their agreements.

“The honor is all ours, Archmage Rhonin, we assure you,” Aethas says, and Tyri’el nods in agreement, feeling it’s not his place to speak. Nevermind that he hasn’t been this nervous and awed since his interview for acceptance to the Academy some seven hundred years ago. He folds his hands in his lap and does his best to pay attention.

“This is a momentous occasion,” Rhonin says, looking between the two of them. His smile continues as he speaks. “Have you reached a verdict on the Council’s proposition, Aethas?”

“I have,” Aethas says, only a slight quiver in his voice. “On behalf of Quel’Thalas, and by extension, the Horde, I would be honored to accept the position of Archmage of the Kirin Tor, and of the Council of Six.”

“Wonderful!” Khadgar exclaims, clapping his hands together, and there’s a small thud as the woman to his left kicks him under the table. He coughs, cheeks flushing. “That is, this is wonderful news.”

“Indeed it is,” Rhonin says, his expression shifting from calm to serious. “Announcements will be prepared by tomorrow for delivery to each capital city, those of both factions. In one week’s time, the barrier around the city will be brought down, and members of both the Horde and the Alliance will be allowed to move freely to and from Dalaran.”

“It goes without saying that the move to neutrality will be met with some amount of resistance on both sides,” the gray-haired woman says, looking from Aethas to Tyri’el. “It’s our hope, Margrave, that with your linguistic skills and your familial reputation, you will be able to act as a go-between for anything that needs smoothing over on the Horde side of this transition.”

“Of course, Archmage,” Tyri’el says, nodding. He’d expected as much, but it still unnerves him. He’s already going to be in hot water with Sylvanas very soon, and he can only hope that the rest of the Horde leaders will treat him with less animosity when he comes on the heels of the announcements.

“With your acceptance, Aethas, the eastern portion of the city designated for Horde occupation will be renamed Sunreaver Sanctuary.”

Aethas blanches at Rhonin’s words, and Tyri’el looks sidelong at him as the younger elf struggles to remain composed.

“That is…an unexpected honor, Archmage. Surely it needn’t be given such a magnanimous name, however.”

“It’s perfectly fitting,” the balding human to Rhonin’s right says.

“It’s important to give credit where it’s due,” Khadgar says, leaning forward in his seat, and his voice takes on a somewhat mischievous tone. “And you’re one of us, now, Aethas. No need to be so formal. We do have names beyond our titles, you know.”

“Of course,” Aethas says, managing a smile.

“And you, Margrave.” Rhonin looks to Tyri’el. “I understand Aethas has propositioned you to be his second in command.”

“He has,” Tyri’el replies. “I have accepted his offer.”

“Excellent,” Khadgar says, his enthusiasm once again met by a kick under the table from his left. “Light, Modera, I am allowed some mirth once in a while!”

Modera rolls her eyes and looks at the elves with a knowing smile.

“Just remember, you two, that you signed on for this.”

“You will not regret this,” Aethas replies to the Council as a whole, some of his own enthusiasm showing through his calm mask. “The Horde can bring so much to the Kirin Tor.”

“We have the highest hopes,” Rhonin says, standing from his chair, and the rest of the Council follows suit. “While there are still preparations to be made, I think this occasion calls for a bit of a celebration.”

“Here, here!” Khadgar says, this time dodging the stamping foot of his colleague with dexterity that belies his outward appearance of age. He summons a carafe and seven crystal goblets, waving his hands to dole out equal portions of the amber-colored liquid. A glass floats to each person in the room, and they raise them for a toast.

“The honor is yours, I think, Aethas,” Khadgar says, the group looking expectantly to the young elf. He blinks in surprise, cheeks darkening, and looks at Tyri’el with a tiny plea in his eyes. Tyri’el can only shrug, somewhat taken aback by the rush and casualness of this meeting. Aethas clears his throat.

“Ah, to the future, then?”

“To the future!” The sentiment is echoed around the room, followed by everyone taking a drink. Tyri’el finds himself downing the alcohol quickly, wishing absently that he had more than this small glass, and forces himself to accept welcomes and congratulations with a growing sense of dread in his stomach. So many changes, so much thrust upon him at once…

It had been easier to imagine shouldering all the responsibility when he had the idea of coming home at the end of each day to find Violet waiting for him. Now, it seems a hollow achievement, one he must traverse alone. The sweet tang of the alcohol bitters on his tongue, and he feels the parchment in his pocket as if it’s a leaden weight.

“We’ll sit down to hammer out the dull minutia in the morning,” Khadgar says, pulling him from his thoughts. He claps a hand on both Tyri’el and Aethas’s shoulders, grinning at them. “Tonight, take heart in the fact that after today, our world will be different, and all the better for it.”

Words meant to be inspiring just add more to the weight on Tyri’el’s shoulders, and as the group starts to disperse, he feels the emotional toll of the day’s events start to drag at his energy. He knows sleep will be near impossible to achieve tonight, with his head so full of doubts and regrets and his arms empty of Violet’s soothing presence. The reality of just how alone he is hits him hard in the gut, and he winces.

“Come,” Aethas says, gesturing with his head to the door. “We’ve much to discuss.”


	51. Separate Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by the song 'Separate Ways' by Journey. 
> 
> ~~Also, by the letter F for Fuuuuuuuuuck~~

The inside of Violet’s cheek is raw by now, but she still bites at it to keep her tears at bay. A false smile stays plastered on her face, and she keeps both hands wrapped around her drink glass like it’s a life preserver. Parties have always bored her, even back in Gilneas when the biggest event she’d ever been to was the annual Noblegarden egg hunt at Greymane Manor, but she’d always been able to muscle her way through them with at least some dignity. Tonight, however, she has little patience for idle smalltalk between minor nobles and members of the Kirin Tor. More than once, she finds herself scanning the back yard for a lapse in the flow of guests, looking for any chance to slip away for even a moment to catch her breath.

That chance, try as she might, doesn’t come. Too many eyes are on her at every moment, and she’s the subject of countless hushed whispers hidden behind crystalline wine goblets, spoken without the knowledge that she can hear every word said about her. At first, she pays the gossip little mind. The brave few with the most curiosity come up to her directly and ask to hear the miraculous tale of her survival. She finds herself omitting most details, such as her time amongst the Horde and that her other self was responsible for her flight, and the more she repeats the story, the more pathetic her excuses begin to sound to her own ears. Each time, she speaks less and less, falling into a detached rhythm until the words no longer sting like hot coals.

Once she’s answered their questions, they leave her be rather quickly, regaling others with the tale and adding sharp comments of their own with each retelling. Some seem suspicious of her sudden return - _anyone could be a black dragon after the mess with King Varian_ \- while others bemoan the loss of Dacian as a prospective partner for their various relatives. These kinds of gossip do little more than provide a dark, momentary amusement, but when her sensitive ears pick up on people speculating that she had something to do with her family’s deaths - _can’t trust those damned backwater Gilneans, always sneaking about_ \- she starts feel even more isolated. A lone island, standing in the midst of a rising tide.

Dacian stays close, and Violet notices that he, too, seems loath to be here. He’d always done well at parties like this, winning over even the most unbearable members of the nobility with his easy smile and warm charm. Now, he rarely speaks, and what little he says is curt and leaves barely any room for continuing a conversation. The only break in his mask of cool detachment comes when a high-pitched squeal of joy pierces through the cooling air of the late evening.

A boy of no more than four pushes his way through anyone in his path, seeking out Dacian at top speed. Dacian grins, scooping him up into his arms and ruffling at his hair. Violet smiles, too, watching him trade chatter with the animated boy. It reminds her of Tyri’el interacting with Senna, and her smile quickly vanishes. She takes a long drink of her moonberry juice, trying to wash away the lump that forms in her throat at the thought of him.

“Light above, are you trying to give your mama chest pains, Nicklaus?” A young woman approaches them, moving slowly with one hand cradling her expectant belly. Dacian uses his free hand to pull out a chair and help her ease down into it, maneuvering the squirming boy in his arms to the ground to cling to his mother’s skirts. She thanks him, smoothing at her son’s hair, and looks up when Dacian moves back to stand beside Violet again. Her eyebrows nearly disappear into her fair hairline, and she shifts in her seat as if she’s trying to see around some illusion before her. “Violet?”

“Well met, Karina,” Violet says, forcing up a small smile. With some effort, Karina stands again, immediately embracing Violet with eyes ringed with tears. The hug is unexpected, and Violet startles, looking over the other woman’s shoulder to look quizzically at Dacian. He offers a small shrug, helping his sister-in-law sit once she’s let go of Violet. Nicklaus hides his face in the folds of his mother’s dress, peeking up at Violet from the corner of one eye, and Violet drops to one knee and speaks softly to him. “Hello, Nicklaus. Do you remember me?”

Nicklaus shakes his head, face still buried in his mother’s skirts. Dacian kneels beside Violet, and a soft expression overcomes him, the kind he used to wear nearly all the time, though it seems it’s become rarer since they parted.

“This is your aunt, Violet,” Dacian says, the simple word sending a sudden jolt through Violet. So much implication in one little slip of the tongue. The ring on her left hand suddenly feels heavier, and she rubs at it absentmindedly while doing her best to keep her expression calm. Senna might have called her that one day.

“The wedding is back on, then?” Karina asks, warm brown eyes flicking to Violet’s hand before returning to her son.

“In some manner, yes,” Dacian says, taking Violet’s hand. “We haven’t had the chance to discuss details just yet.”

Like the constricting coils of a snake, a nervous twisting starts in Violet’s gut. No matter how many times she’d envisioned marrying Dacian, both before and after she thought she’d lost him, it was always some sort of far-off, dreamy fantasy. Even though they’d been separated barely two months before they were set to wed, it never seemed real. Now, it’s all too real, and it makes her stomach churn. She loves him dearly, but this is not how things were supposed to turn out. He’s supposed to be dead, and she’s supposed to end up with Tyri’el, as he’d promised.

No, she thinks, he revoked that promise. That thought does nothing but stir more unease within her, and her eyes find the reaching spire of the Violet Citadel in the near skyline. He could be up there somewhere, content to discard her after everything they’d been through. After everything she’d sacrificed, giving herself to him with his word that he would never forsake her. How easily he had thrown her away.

Nicklaus, apparently deciding he’s no longer feeling shy, takes off into the mix of guests. Karina sighs, moving to hoist herself from her chair, but Dacian holds up his hand to still her and stands.

“I’ll track him down,” he says, looking at Violet as if to ask if she’ll be all right without him. She nods, standing as well, and he leaves in the direction the boy was headed.

“That will be you, someday,” Karina says, smoothing her dress over her belly. “Light willing, your children will inherit their temperament from Dacian.”

Violet’s mouth goes dry and she swallows hard, masking her discomfort with a short laugh meant to sound as if she’s agreeing with her statement. Her mind wanders back to the twins she saw at the fountain, trying to reclaim the feeling they’d given her when she’d realized they were half-elves. Then, the thought of children had been almost exciting, imagining them as clever and kind as their father, but now, it settles over her with all the grace of a stampeding kodo.

“Here you are, love,” Landon says, approaching them and offering his wife a drink. His lips make a tight line when he looks to Violet. “Where’s my brother?”

“He’s in pursuit of your son,” Karina says, taking a drink as she glances up at him. Landon hums in acknowledgment, and an uncomfortable silence falls over them.

“Excuse me,” Violet says finally, moving away from them when the tension becomes too much for her to bear any longer. She makes her way to the side of the house, skirting along the fenceline to the front courtyard with the intent to escape the suffocation of the party for even just a moment. Too many eyes, too many questions, too many memories. All of this still has an air of surreality, and she needs time to sit with her thoughts so she can figure out what the hell she’s supposed to do now. She’s already promised to return to Stormwind with Dacian, but Sylvanas will be expecting her back alongside Tyri’el. The thought makes her shudder, and she briefly considers whether or not the Banshee Queen will send people after her, and if even the great city of Stormwind will be able to keep her safe from the queen’s wrath.

“Too stuffy in there for you?”

Violet startles out of her thoughts, finding that the courtyard isn’t empty as she’d hoped. Barrett sits along the edge of the fountain, a silverleaf cigarette between his index and middle fingers.

“Insufferably,” Violet says, coming to sit next to him. He snorts, taking a drag of his cigarette, and Violet winkles her nose. “I thought you’d quit those things.”

“I did. Twice, now,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nose like a dragon. “It’s a dirty habit, but when you’re stuck on a ship for a month at a time, you run out of things to do.”

He looks over at her, studying the frown barely touching her lips.

“I’ve heard all sorts of rumors tonight, but I want to hear it from you. What the hell happened, Vi?”

Violet lets out a long sigh through slack lips, running her hand through her hair as she watches a trail of ants crawling on the pavestone at her feet.

“They attacked, and I ran.”

“You did, or she did?”

Violet drags her eyes from her feet to look at him. His face is calm and unassuming, not pushing her for an answer but still curious.

“She did.”

“Mm, I thought that might be the case,” he says, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “Dace wouldn’t even consider it, not even when they brought back one too few bodies. He just…”

Barrett waves his hand in lieu of words, taking a long drag of his cigarette. Violet folds her hands in her lap, again fidgeting with her engagement ring.

“I’ll admit, I think I was more surprised to see my baby brother here than I was to see you. Last time we were all together was for your birthday before…well, you know.”

“Truly?” Violet asks, grim expression deepening into a full frown. “I find that…”

She sighs, fingers finding her locket.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Why he’s different now.” Violet chews on her bottom lip, thinking back to just how much Dacian used to smile and laugh, and make her laugh. Now, it seems all that’s been chased away, replaced by a hardness in his eyes that tugs on her heart.

“Your fault? No, I don’t think that.” Barrett shakes his head. “Losing you, maybe. He blamed himself.”

“It wasn’t his fault. I was the one who…”

“You didn’t set the gnolls on your family, and you didn’t run because you wanted to.” Barrett puts his free hand on her shoulder and squeezes. “You’re back now. That’s what counts.”

“I suppose so,” Violet says, voice soft. “He’s still changed.”

“Yes,” Barrett says, the word more of a sigh than an affirmation. “Losing the love of one’s life will do that to a person.”

Perhaps it’s because she’s finally alone, or because the gravity of his statement hits so very close to the barrier barely containing the raw hurt still consuming her heart, but Violet finds herself breaking down into quiet sobs nonetheless. Barrett says nothing, letting his cigarette hang between his lips as he wraps his arms around her and lets her weep into his chest.

The blood of two broken hearts now stains her hands, even if one can now begin to mend. The haunted look in Tyri’el’s eyes seems seared into her brain, coming to her against the backs of her eyelids like a nightmare. She’s the one who caused that despair, and Light above, she thinks she would do anything at all to go back and alter the words she spoke to him in their room. If she’d just spit it out, that she loves him and would never have knowingly deceived him, maybe she wouldn’t be a complete mess right now, and maybe they’d still have their forever to look forward to. If she could only find him, she could make him see.

“Bare, I need you to do something for me.” Violet lifts her head, scrubbing away the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Please.”

“You know I’m always willing to help you, Vi, but what are we talking here?” He raises a dark eyebrow, watching her as she looks up at the spire of the Violet Citadel.

“Remember that night I snuck up here to see Dacian and found you…you know, with Lord…whatever his name was?”

“Hilt deep into Viscount Trenwick? Yes, I do seem to recall that rather awkward conversation.”

“And you made me swear not to tell anyone until you were ready to tell them yourself?”

“Yes,” Barrett says, dragging out the word with uncertainty with his brows knitting together. “What are you asking of me, Vi?”

“I…I need you to just buy me a little bit of time. If Dacian comes asking for me, just tell him I…” Violet thinks herself in frantic circles, desperate to find something, anything, that will sound believable. “Tell him the party…that tonight has just been too much, too soon, and I went to fetch my mount so we can get out of here as soon as possible.”

“But that’s not what you’ll be doing.”

“No, I will, but…not only that.”

“Vi,” Barrett begins, dropping the last bit of his cigarette onto the ground to stub it out with the toe of his boot. He looks her dead in the eye. “I’m all for repaying you for keeping my preferences hushed up, and it’s really none of my business, but…I want to know why you’re asking me to lie to my brother.”

Violet takes a steadying breath, weighing her options. With how closely Dacian has been keeping to her all night, she knows this is her one and only chance to slip away, and she can’t pass it up.

“While I was gone, I…met someone.”

“And that’s who you’re going to see?”

Violet nods.

“He saw me with Dacian and I didn’t have time to explain myself before he stormed off and…” She holds up her hands in exasperation, but then they come together as if she’s praying. “I just need a few minutes to find him and tell him what happened. Please.”

Barrett frowns, more thoughtful than disapproving.

“Does my brother know?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Yes,” Violet says, despite the wave of panic that overcomes her at the thought. “I just…I’ve made such a mess of things and I haven’t had time to process it and I can’t—”

“Breathe,” Barrett says, resting his hands on her shoulders. Violet takes a deep breath, trying desperately to calm her racing pulse. “I’ll buy you as much time as I can, but the stable isn’t far so I can’t promise more than perhaps ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” Violet says, jumping up and hugging him.

“Wait, wait,” he replies, taking her wrist when she starts to run off. Violet looks back at him, uncertain.

“If I do this for you, I want your word that you’ll be honest with Dacian, and you’ll do it soon.”

“I will.”

“You swear?”

“I swear it.”

“And this man, you’re certain he’s worth it?”

“Yes,” Violet breathes without an ounce of hesitation. Light above, he is worth it. “I can’t leave it like this with him, Bare. It would haunt me.”

“All right.” Barrett stands and lets go of her wrist. “Better get to it.”

Violet sprints from the courtyard without looking back. It’s not far to the Violet Citadel, and she catches the clerk at the front counter just as he appears to be packing up for the day.

“Excuse me,” she says, startling the gnome into nearly falling off his stool. He rights himself and adjusts his glasses, looking up at her expectantly.

“Greetings, young miss! Welcome to the Violet Citadel. What can I—”

“Can you get a message to someone upstairs? Please, it’s urgent.”

 

—

 

Tyri’el frowns into his glass, and despite having split the remainder of the bottle of Suntouched Special Reserve with Aethas, he finds that his mind still isn’t dulled nearly enough to chase away thoughts of Violet that still linger like wraiths. Even the magnificent view from Aethas’s office balcony can’t offer any comfort to him now. The spell woven into the barrier makes it look like just after sunset, and far below, Windle Sparkshine travels along the lanes of the city and lights the streetlamps one by one.

“Rommath will be furious with us,” Aethas says, dragging Tyri’el from his thoughts. “I’ve written to him numerous times, hoping for some kind of partnership with the magisters under his command, but all I’ve received back is a half dozen copies of the exact same form letter. At least the Regent Lord is courteous enough to send handwritten refusals.”

“Or his secretary is.”

Aethas grunts into his drink.

“We’ll travel to Silvermoon soon enough,” he says, looking out over the city. “You, at least, have a title that makes you worth listening to.”

“It’s not worth too much anymore,” Tyri’el replies, knowing that the exact opposite is true. He’s tried a handful of times to tell Aethas about his father, about who he really is, but he’s only filled his glass again and left it unsaid. It’s not as if it’s worth mentioning amid the celebration they’re having at the moment.

“I have half a mind to talk the rest of the Council into officially making you an Archmage, you know.”

Tyri’el snorts, the low hum of the alcohol in his veins making the statement more humorous to him than it should be.

“What? It isn’t as if you’re not qualified. Overly, if you ask me.”

“I’m trying to imagine how much more trouble I could possibly put myself in with my uncle than I already will be.” Tyri’el takes another drink. “I’ll be lucky if I keep my eyebrows.”

Aethas laughs, splitting the last bit of wine between his glass and Tyri’el’s. The older elf accepts it readily, grateful for what will eventually halt his thoughts completely. No amount of outside distraction has helped quiet his mind at all, despite his best efforts. He always comes back to the image of Violet with her betrothed - her encircled in those _human_ arms, attached to that _human_ man. Part of him knows she’s likely much better off with one of her own people, someone who she can grow old with, who shares the same dismally short lifespan. No matter how much he tells himself this, it doesn’t dull the ache in his chest even a little bit. If anything, it’s wholly counterproductive, but his mind stays stuck in that cycle of regret and self-loathing.

“When is Violet expecting you back?”

Tyri’el looks over at Aethas, hoping that his friend doesn’t see the brokenness behind his eyes.

“She isn’t.”

“I…see.” Aethas frowns, swirling his wine around inside his glass. “I can rescind the paperwork for her citizenship, if you—”

“No,” Tyri’el says, not meaning to snap, but any reminder of Violet has started to cause physical pain - a sharp, knife-like jolt in his chest - and he needs Aethas to just stop talking about her. Seeing the stunned, almost hurt look in the other elf’s eyes, he amends his statement. “That’s not necessary. I’m sure she’s already back in Stormwind by now.”

“I see,” Aethas repeats, still eyeing Tyri’el with his head tilted slightly to one side. “If you want to talk—”

“I’m fine,” Tyri’el says, holding up a hand to emphasize his point. What is that old adage? Repeat a lie enough times and it will eventually become the truth? He can only hope it’s not just a saying. He’s fine, he repeats to himself, inwardly saying it over and over to try to force himself to believe it. Even around the alcohol’s dulling that’s starting to take hold on his mind, he knows it’s a thin argument, that’s he’s absolutely not fine, but it’s all he has left to cling to.

He tells himself he’s survived worse. He lost his home and nearly all of his family in one fell swoop, and perhaps it’s because it’s years in the past, but losing Violet…it almost feels worse. It’s closer to the sensation of losing his connection to the Sunwell, of having something so constant and familiar ripped from the core of his soul. That hole has been mostly filled by the stolen energies he siphons, so perhaps he’ll eventually find something to fill this gaping wound with. For now, he downs the rest of his wine and tries to ground himself by focusing on the sweet, familiar taste on his tongue.

“Do you remember when we were younger, when we thought we were invincible? When we thought we could change the world?”

“Vaguely,” Tyri’el says, thankful for the change of topic. Though, he’d never once in his life felt invincible. Powerful, perhaps, like when he’d learned to levitate boulders three times his size, or mastered his mirror image spell to defeat a sparring opponent for the first time, but never infallible. He’s always been keenly aware of all his faults, numerous as they’ve become.

“The luster comes off as you get older, doesn’t it? You begin to realize that you’re not all-mighty, that you’re no Aspect or Titan.” Aethas sighs, but it’s not in defeat, but rather a calm acceptance. “But I’m starting to think we just might change the world, you and I.”

“I’d wager that’s the wine talking.”

Aethas chuckles softly.

“Perhaps. But we are making history. For better or for worse.”

“It’s for the better,” Tyri’el says, knowing he doesn’t sound terribly convinced himself. “It has to be. After so much darkness, there has to be some light at the end of this tunnel.”

It’s a hollow sentiment, but it’s something to cling to. A passage from the Libram of Holy Light comes to mind, and Tyri’el wonders absently when he’d started relating to the human’s holy book. He knows exactly when, but pushes away that thought. The words come back from his memory somewhat muddled, but the message is the same, and it stirs something like hope in his chest.

_The greatest darkness always comes just before the light of dawn._

The silence that falls between them is broken by the sound of knocking from inside Aethas’s office. The Archmage rises and disappears inside, coming back a few moments later with a puzzled expression on his face.

“There’s a messenger here. He says he needs to speak with you.”

“What about?” Tyri’el asks, wondering who could possibly know to find him here.

“I’m not sure, but he said it’s urgent.”

Tyri’el sighs through his nose, pushing himself to his feet so he can move into the office. A gnome, one he recognizes from the front desk downstairs, stands in the doorway, looking slightly out of breath.

“Margrave Sunfury?” He asks, looking up at him.

“Yes,” Tyri’el says, waiting expectantly.

“There’s a young lady downstairs, asking to speak to you. She says it’s a matter of great urgency.”

“A young lady?” He asks, and the gnome nods hurriedly.

“Yessir, a human. She wishes me to ask you to come downstairs presently.” He blinks pausing, then speaks again as if he’s afraid he’s forgotten something. “She said it’s very important.”

A human. Tyri’el’s chest clenches, and for just a fraction of a second, he allows himself to feel something that he once might have known as hope for the future. It sours quickly, and all the hissing voices and long-ingrained self-doubt come rushing back. They’re softer now, quieted some by his numerous drinks, but they still give him enough pause to nearly take his breath away.

He wants to see Violet, to beg her to forget all about this other man, to just run away with him and—

Aethas shifts uncomfortably beside him, and all his far-flung notions of fleeing die a quick death. No, he made a promise to Aethas, and to himself. That’s something he can’t go back on, no matter how much he wishes he could. Azeroth needs a united population to drive back the waking Scourge, and to do that, he and Aethas have to stand together to ensure that Dalaran becomes a place of peace and cooperation for both factions. This is where he needs to be, and he needs every bit of his focus intact to see this come to fruition.

But…Violet. Belore’s splendor, he loves her with everything he is, but the doubt still clouds his heart like tar spilled into water. He wants to understand - needs to understand - but the thought of facing her after everything he’d said to her…

Shame burns hotter than the hurt for a moment, and Tyri’el can’t bring himself to hope that she might forgive him. How could she? If anything, she’s waiting downstairs, having sought him out to berate him, to scream and cry and plead for him to keep his promises, and Belore’s wrath, he deserves every word of it. It feels like the two warring halves of his conscience are moving farther and farther apart, threatening to tear him in two unless he just makes up his mind.

“Tell her…I don’t want to see her.” The words taste all wrong as he says them, but the frightened, browbeaten part of him just wants this all to go away. He can’t pretend that he’s fine if she’s downstairs asking for him, and he can’t focus on what must be done if there’s still some part of her lingering here.

The gnome pauses, wetting his lips and wringing his hands.

“Ah, as you wish. Is there anything else I should relay to the young lady?”

“Tell her that I…I wish her all the happiness she deserves.”

 

—

 

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

Violet’s words are nearly a snarl, and the gnome before her looks like he’s questioning all of his life choices up to this point.

“I…that’s just what he said, miss.”

Forcing herself to take a calming breath, Violet closes her eyes for a moment. Light above, he wasn’t supposed to refuse to see her. Now how is she supposed to explain herself? She’s already wasted nearly five minutes here, and she can’t risk Dacian coming to look for her.

Happiness. She wonders how Tyri’el had said it. It couldn’t have been sincere. It had to have been with a sneer, his words thick and full of contempt. She deserves it, but it somehow hurts more to be robbed of the chance to hear it straight from him, looking him in the eye while she receives her punishment.

_Think, girl. Think before you act._

It’s Uther’s voice that comes to her, and she can’t pinpoint exactly which time it’s referring to. He’d repeated it nearly as much as he’d ever said her name, always telling her she was too impulsive, too brash. It would get her into trouble someday, he’d always told her with a strange, knowing wistfulness in his eyes.

So think she does.

“Can you take a written message up to him?” She asks as she opens her eyes, and the gnome nods, wiggling his fingers to summon a piece of parchment and a fountain pen. Leaning on the counter, she begins to pen a long apology, but the words come out sounding hollow and insincere on the page, so she crosses them out and starts again.

All she needs is to get him downstairs, even for a moment. She just needs time to say one thing, that she gave herself fully to him because she truly believed Dacian was dead. That’s all she needs, just five seconds for those few short words and this whole mess will be over.

She signs her name in shaky script - as if she really needs to tell him who it’s from - and folds the parchment before handing it back to the gnome. He waves his hand again and the pen disappears from her hand, and a glob of wax seals the message with a small smacking sound.

“Please hurry,” she says, and he nods, jogging off as fast as his legs will carry him.

Holy Light, she thinks, please just let her see him again.

 

—

 

“I have a spare guest room in my new home that you’re welcome to for the night,” Aethas offers, breaking the silence that’s followed the gnome’s departure. “Or I can show you to the vacant houses in the new sector so you can choose which one you’d like to take.”

“Houses,” Tyri’el says, scrubbing a hand down his face. He needs to be alone with his thoughts now. He needs to just…forget.

Aethas nods, pulling shut the doors to the balcony and waving his hands to extinguish the lamps lining the walls of his office. They move to leave, almost colliding with the gnome as he comes rushing back into the room.

“The young lady said to give you this,” he pants, holding up a letter. Tyri’el takes it hesitantly as Aethas conjures a glass of water that he hands to the winded gnome.

“Thank you,” Tyri’el says stiffly, turning the letter over between his fingers. He waits for the gnome to finish chugging the entire glass before speaking again. “Tell her my answer hasn’t changed.”

 

—

 

Violet’s fists curl at her sides and she reminds herself for the umpteenth time that the gnome nearly cowering before her is merely the messenger. She forces herself to take yet another calming breath, refusing to let her other self anywhere near the forefront of her mind, and thanks the gnome with a smile that comes out more like a grimace of pain. She leaves quickly, like a dog fleeing with its tail between its legs. Once outside, she turns back to look up at the Citadel, musing on her chances of successfully scaling the spire without being noticed, but shakes her head to clear that absurd thought.

So this is it, then. This is how it ends. No words exchanged, no final chance to see his face. Just an empty refusal delivered by someone else. Even after he’d taken back everything he’d promised, such a blatant rejection stings enough to bring tears to her eyes. Rage and despair battle inside of her, neither coming out victorious in the end, and instead, they settle into an uneasy coexistence as she descends the steps and heads towards the stable.

This is all her fault.

People pass in blurs, laughing and carrying on as if the entire world hasn’t just come to an end. She envies them.

Hala whines when her mistress comes to fetch her from her stall, and Violet blindly attaches her saddle, moving on instinct rather than actually knowing what she’s doing. She pays the stablemaster, likely greatly overpaying from the wide-eyed look the high elf gives her, but her eyes are so clouded with unshed tears that she cant tell gold from silver or ten coins from one.

The city is suffocating around her, and she leans hard on Hala as they navigate the streets. This, too, she does on instinct, taking the all-too-familiar route through the city that has been rebuilt with a near-perfect replica of its layout from before the Third War. It’s a trip she’s taken many times before, but never with the same sense of dread that hangs over her now. She may as well be walking to the gallows.

Violet leaves Hala outside the walls of the Goddard manor, giving her a short command to stay as she pushes her way though the front gate. The courtyard is empty, and she moves around the house to the backyard. There are eyes on her, she knows there are, but she can’t find it in herself to care. In fact, she can hardly feel anything anymore. She’s only numb, moving blindly towards the familiar scent she knows belongs to Dacian.

“There you are,” Dacian says, pulling her into a hug as if he feared he’d never see her again.

“Can we leave?” She asks, voice soft and coming through to her like there’s cotton stuffed in her ears.

“Of course,” he replies, and she feels herself being pulled gently by the arm. They find Dacian’s parents, who both look them over with concern in their eyes.

“Leaving so soon?” Marian asks, stepping away to speak with them. It’s clear that she’s displeased with the notion, but Dacian speaks before she can voice her thoughts.

“It’s been a trying day for the both of us, mother,” he says, glancing sideways at Violet as he speaks. “For now, it’s best we have some time to ourselves.”

“I…suppose that’s…”

“Let them go, Marian,” Renaud says, putting his hand on her shoulder. “They’ve earned the right to be alone together for the time being.”

Dacian shoots his father an appreciative look.

“You will come back, though, yes?” Marian grasps their hands where they're twined together between them.

“We will,” Dacian says, and Violet is grateful he’s giving her the chance to be silent for the first time tonight.

“Say goodbye to your brothers before you go,” Marian says, and Dacian begins to protest, but she halts his words. “Please, Dacian. You’ve barely spoken in years, and they’ve both missed you terribly.”

Dacian sighs. He looks at Violet as if to ask if she’ll be all right, and she nods. Pressing his lips to her forehead, he disappears into the house, leaving Violet with his parents. Marian grabs Violet’s hands, the action demanding her attention all at once. Her senses become sharp again, and she snaps back into the present.

“Please, bring my son back to me.”

“We’ll be back, Marian. He gave you his wo—”

“No, listen to me.” There’s desperation in her voice, and fear in her eyes as her grip tightens on Violet’s hands. “My son, my bright, beautiful boy died the day he thought he lost you. He’s become a stranger to me, Violet. He is jaded and cold, nothing like my precious son, the one you fell in love with.”

She’s weeping now, and Violet puts her hand on the older woman’s shoulder, looking to Renaud for help, but he only nods curtly and moves to rejoin his guests.

“You must make him remember who he was before his grief changed him. Please, I need him back.”

“I will do my best,” Violet says, and even to her ears, the promise sounds hollow. She can barely remember who she used to be before her family was taken, before she lost everything, and she doubts she has the power to do what is being asked of her. Marian nods, still holding tight onto her hands. She brushes her finger over the ring on Violet’s left hand and smiles.

Dacian returns with Barrett at his side, and Violet finds herself drawn into another tight hug.

“We’ll talk later,” Barrett says in her ear, and Violet nods. “Take care of him until then.”

“I will,” Violet replies, quiet enough that only he can hear her. He smiles at her, still something wary in his eyes, and nods to his brother. The two leave, moving around the house until they’re alone again in the courtyard.

“This is real, isn’t it?” Dacian asks, turning to face her and taking her cheeks in his hands.

“Yes,” Violet says, knowing just how painfully real every bit of this day has been.

“You’re really coming home.”

“I am.” Even though it makes her nearly sick to think about. Even though it never should have happened and she shouldn’t be anywhere but in Tyri’el’s arms. Dacian smiles, leaning down to kiss her. He pulls away after a moment, brushing her bangs away from her face in a suddenly tender gesture. This is the man she remembers, even if she doesn’t want to at the moment. They leave the courtyard, and as soon as they’re outside the gate, Dacian jumps, hand finding the hilt of his sword when he notices Hala. The worg responds with a low warning growl, and Violet gives a short command that silences her immediately.

“This is your mount?” Dacian asks, hesitantly easing away from his sword, and Violet nods. “I was picturing something more…horse-like.”

“This is Hala,” Violet says, scratching the worg’s muzzle. “Hala, meet Dacian.”

Hala inches forward, sniffing at Dacian’s hand when her mistress takes it and lifts it towards her. She wags her tail warily, arching into him as he slowly moves to pet the side of her face. Violet relaxes, thinking for a moment that she might have preferred it if Hala had simply growled and refused his touch. Dacian takes her hand again, squeezing it gently as they begin to walk.

The Silver Enclave is nearly empty this time of day, and the high elf manning the portals nearly outright growls at them when he’s forced to rise from his chair to charge the portal gateway with energy.

“Where to?” He asks, and Violet looks away, unable to keep her eyes on such a close reminder of everything she’s being forced to leave behind.

“Stormwind,” Dacian says, and the elf begins to cast. The portal springs to life a moment later, and the white walls and colored roofs of her once-home appear through the magical gateway, calling to her. She looks over her shoulder, eyes roving the spire of the Violet Citadel. Dacian kisses her temple, drawing her attention back to him. He looks at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world, and she can’t help but think of how undeserving of that look she truly is. The portal fully materializes, and he speaks again, his voice soft but charged with emotion. “Let’s go home, little moon.”

 

—

 

Aethas presents several newly-built houses for Tyri’el’s consideration, and without thinking, he chooses the smallest of them all. After all, there’s no one but him to live there now.

“The Council will want to meet with us again in the morning,” Aethas says, handing Tyri’el the enchanted key that matches the lock on the front door of the very thin, three-story townhouse. Tyri’el nods, wine-fueled exhaustion stealing over him. Aethas puts his hand on his friend’s shoulder, looking at him in earnest. “If there’s anything you need, I’m just down the street.”

“Thank you,” Tyri’el says softly, looking up at the false stars just winking into view against the dome.

“Really,” Aethas continues, hand staying where it is, “anything at all.”

“Thank you,” Tyri’el repeats, this time a bit more tersely. Aethas frowns, opening his mouth but closing it again as if he thinks better of what he was going to say.

“Good night, old friend,” he says, turning and leaving the very small front courtyard with more than one wary glance cast over his shoulder.

For a moment, Tyri’el can only stand where he is, peering around like this might be some elaborate illusion, but the weight of the key in his hands makes it clear that this is all too real. This little house is his, and his alone.

He’s alone.

There’s a few sparse articles of furniture past the door, making up a small living room and kitchen. The narrow stairs lead up to the second floor, where he finds a study and another small spare room. It could have been a nursery one day, he thinks bitterly, slamming the door just as quickly as he’d opened it. The third floor is all one room save for a small bathroom, already outfitted with a bed against one wall. There’s a hearth off to one side, and he takes a moment to bend down and light it with a snap of his fingers. The heat does little to chase away the chill settling into his core, and he sits on the end of the bed, looking around at his new home.

This is not how it was supposed to happen.

He pulls Violet’s letter from his pocket, along with the folded writ for her citizenship. He crumples the latter into a ball and tosses it on the fire, watching the flames devour it. His eyes find the letter. It feels heavy in his hands, weighted down by the unknown words inside, and his fingers hover over the seal.

This is not how it was supposed to happen, but it did. He was not supposed to lose her this soon, and not in this way, but he did.

An empty house, an empty heart.

This is his life now.

He throws Violet’s letter into the fire, unopened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! It's finally fucking DONE!
> 
> I am so humbled by everyone who has kudos'd, bookmarked, and taken the time to give me such lovely (and sometimes lovingly threatening) comments. I don't deserve you guys, and I am so blown away that people have come to like this silly little story that's completely consumed my life. Every little show of appreciation does so much to inspire and motivate me, so this is all because of you!
> 
> Now that this is done, I want feedback, y'all! The good, the bad, the whatever. I want to know what you liked, what you didn't, both about my writing style and the actual story. I want to get better where I can, so please, constructively criticize away! I'll take it all to heart. (Yes, I know I hurt the babies, but that's just how I roll!)
> 
> Thank you all so very much! <3 <3 <3
> 
> -Jess
> 
> Next book is up!  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435060

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Burning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14250228) by [ChibiAuthorNate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiAuthorNate/pseuds/ChibiAuthorNate)




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